



I 


. 1 ! 


t 


I 



THE SECRET WITNESS. 


BY CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 

II 



I 

i BOSTON, 

PUBLISHED BY S. G. GOODRICH, 


SOLD BY BOWLES AND DEARBORN, BOSTON ; G. AND C. CARVILL, 
NEW YORK ; AND H. C. CAREY AND I. LEA, PHILADELPHIA. 
>H)CCCXXVII. 



5i\+a& 

"I- 



BOSTON, 

Isaac R. Butts & Co. Printers. 


I. E. ROSENBERG, 


Y ou are anxious to obtain some know- 
ledge of the history of Constantia Dudley. I am well ac- 
quainted with your motives, and allow that they justify 
your curiosity. I am willing, to the utmost of my power, to 
comply with your request, and will now dedicate what lei- 
sure I have to the composition of her story. 

My narrative will have little of that merit which flows 
from unity of design. You are desirous of hearing an au- 
thentic, and not a fictitious tale. It will, therefore, be my 
duty to relate events is no artificial or elaborate order, and 
without that harmonious congruity and luminous amplifica- 
tion, which might justly be displayed in a tale flowing mere- 
ly from invention. It will be little more than a biographical 
sketch, in which the facts are distributed and amplified, not 
as a poetical taste would prescribe, but as the materials 
afforded me, sometimes abundant and sometimes scanty, 
would permit. 

Constantia, like all the beings made known to us, not by 
fancy, but experience, has numerous defects. You will read- 


IV 


ily perceive, that her tale is told by her friend, but I hope 
you will not discover many or glaring proofs of a disposi- 
tion to extenuate her errors or falsify her character. 

Ormond will, perhaps, appear to you a contradictory or 
unintelligible being. I pretend not to the infallibility of in- 
spiration. He is not a creature of fancy. It was not pru- 
dent to unfold all the means by which I gained a knowledge 
of his actions ; but these means, though singularly fortunate 
and accurate, could not be unerring and complete. I have 
shown him to you as he appeared, on different occasions and 
at successive periods, to me. This is all that you will de- 
mand from a faithful biographer. 

If you were not deeply interested in the fate of my friend, 
yet my undertaking will not be useless, inasmuch as it will in- 
troduce you to scenes to which you have been hitherto a stran- 
ger. The modes of life, the influence of public events upon 
the character and happiness of individuals in America, are 
new to you. The distinctions of birth, the artificial degrees of 
esteem or contempt which connect themselves with different 
professions and ranks in your native country, * are but little 
known among us. Society and manners constitute your fii- 
vorite study, and I am willing to believe, that my relation 
Mull supply you with knowledge, on these heads, not to be 
otherwise obtained. If these details be, in that respect, un- 
satisfactory, all that I can add, is my counsel to go and ex- 
amine for yourself 

S. C. 


Gennany 


ORMOND; 

OR 

THE SECRET WITNESS. 


CHAPTER 1. 

Stephen Dudley was a native of New York. He was 
educated to the profession of a painter. His father’s trade 
was that of an apothecary. But this son, manifesting an at- 
tachment to the pencil, he was resolved that it should be 
gratified. For this end Stephen was sent at an early age 
to Europe, and not only enjoyed the instructions of Fuzeli 
and Bartolozzi, but spent a considerable period in Italy, in 
studying the Augustan and Medicean monuments. It was 
intended that he should practice his art in his native city, but 
the yoiing man, though reconciled to this scheme by defer- 
ence to paternal authority, and by a sense of its propriety, 
was willing, as long as possible to postpone it. The liberality 
of his father relieved liim from all pecuniary cares. His 
whole time was devoted to the improvement of his skill in his 
favorite art, and the enriching of his mind with every valua- 
ble accomplishment. He was endowed with a comprehen- 
sive genius and indefatigable industry. His progress was 
proportionably rapid, and he passed his time without much 
regard to futurity, being too well satisfied with the present to 
anticipate a change. A change however was unavoidable, 
and he was obliged at length to pay a reluctant obedience to 
his father’s repeated summons. The death of his wife had 
rendered his society still more necessary to the old gentleman. 

1 * 


6 


ORMOND, 


He married before his return. Tlie woman whom he had 
selected was an unportioned orphan, and was recommend- 
ed merely by her moral qualities. These, however, were 
eminent, and secured to her, till the end of her life, the af- 
fection of her husband. Though painting was capable of 
fully gratifying his taste as matter of amusement, he quickly 
found that, in his new situation it would not answer the ends 
of a profession. His fadier supported himself by the profits 
of his shop, but with all his industry he could do no more 
than procure a subsistence for himself and his son. 

Till his father’s death young Dudley attached himself to 
painting. His gains were slender but he loved the art, and 
his father’s profession rendered his own exertions in a great 
degree superfluous. The death of the elder Dudley intro- 
duced an important change in his situation. It thenceforth 
became necessary to strike into some new path, to deny 
himself the indulgence of his inclinations, and regulate 
his future exertions by a view to nothing but gain. There 
was little room for choice. His habits had disqualified him 
for mechanical employments. He could not stoop to the 
imaginary indignity which attended them, nor spare the time 
necessary to obtain the requisite degree of skill. His father 
died in possession of some stock, and a sufficient portion of 
credit to supply its annual decays. He lived at what they 
call a good stand, and enjoyed a certain quantity of perma- 
nent custom. The knowledge that was required was as 
easily obtained as the elements of any other profession, and 
was not wholly unallied to the pursuits in wliich he had some- 
times engaged. Hence he could not hesitate long in forming 
his resolution, but assumed the management of his father’s 
concerns with a cheerful and determined spirit. 

The knowledge of his business was acquired in no long 
time. He was stimulated to the acquisition by a sense of 
duty, he was inured to habits of industry, and there were few' 
things capable to resist a strenuous exertion of liis faculties. 
Knowledge of whatever kind afforded a compensation to 
labor, but the task being finished, that which remained, 
which, in ordinary apprehensions w^ould have been esteemed 
an easy and smooth path, was to him insupportably disgustful. 
The drudgery of a shop, where all the faculties were at a 
stand, and one day was an unvaried repetition of the fore- 


ORMOND. 


7 


going, was too incongenial to his disposition not to be a source 
of discontent. This was an evil which it was the tendency 
of time to increase radier than diminish. Tlie longer he 
endured it the less tolerable it became. He could not for- 
bear comparing his present situation with his former, and 
deriving from the contrast perpetual food for melancholy. 

Tlie indulgence of his father had contributed to instil into 
Iiim prejudices, in consequence of which a certain species of 
disgi-ace was annexed to every employment of which the 
only purpose was gain. His present situation not only pre- 
cluded all those pursuits which exaJt and harmonize the feel- 
ings, but was detested by liim as something humiliating and 
ignominious. His wife was of a pliant temper, and her 
condition less influenced by tliis change than that of her hus- 
band. She was qualified to be his comforter, but instead of 
dispelling his gloom by judicious arguments, or a seasonable 
example of vivacity, she caught the infection tliat preyed upon 
his mind and augmented his anxieties by partal^g in them. 

By enlarging in some degree, the foundation on which his 
father had built, he had provided the means of a future se- 
cession, and might console himself with the prospect of en- 
joying his darling ease at some period of his life. Tliis 
period was necessarily too remote for his wishes, and had 
not certain occurrences taken place, by which he was flatter- 
ed with die immediate possession of ease, it is far from being 
certain that he would not have fallen a victim to his growing 
disquietudes. 

He was one morning engaged behind his counter as usual, 
when a youtli came into his shop, and, in terms tliat bespoke 
the union of fearlessness and frankness, inquired whether he 
could be engaged as an apprentice. A proposal of this kind 
could not be suddenly rejected or adopted. He stood in 
need of assistance, the youth w'as manly and blooming, and 
exhibited a modest and ingenuous aspect. It w'as possible 
that he was, in every respect, qualified for the post for which 
he applied, but it w’as previously necessary to ascertain these 
qualifications. For this end he requested the youth to call 
at his house in the evening, when he should be at leisure to 
converse with him and furni.shed him Avith suitable directions. 

The youth came according to appointment. On being 
questioned as to his birtli-place and origin, he stated tliat he 


ORMOND. 


8 

was a native of Wakefield, in Yorkshire ; that his family were 
honest, and his education not mean ; that he was the eldest 
of many cliildren, and having attained an age at wliich he con- 
ceived it his duty to provide for himself, he had, with tlie con- 
currence of his friends, come to America, in search of the 
means of independent subsistence ; that he had just arrived in 
a ship which he named, and, his scanty stock of money being 
likely to be speedily consumed, this had been the first effort 
he had made to procure employment. 

His tale was circumstantial and consistent, and his veracity 
appeared liable to no doubt. He was master of his book 
and his pen, and had acquired more than the rudiments of 
Latin. Mr. Dudley did not require much time to deliberate. 
In a few days the youth was established as a member of his 
family, and as a coadjutor in his shop, nothing but food, 
clothing, and lodging being stipulated as the reward of his 
services. 

The young man improved daily in the good opinion of his 
master. His apprehension was quick, his sobriety invariable, 
and his application incessant. Though by no means presump- 
tuous or arrogant, he was not wanting in a suitable degree of 
self-confidence. All his propensities appeared to concentre 
in his occupation and the promotion of his master’s interest, 
from which he was drawn aside by no allurements of sensual 
or intellectual pleasure. In a short time he was able to re- 
lieve his master of most of the toils of his profession, and 
Mr. Dudley a thousand times congratulated himself on pos- 
sessing a servant equally qualified by his talents and his 
probity. He gradually remitted his attention to his own con- 
cerns, and placed more absolute reliance on the fidelity of 
his dependant. 

Young Craig, that was the name of the youth, maintained 
a punctual correspondence with his family, and confided to 
liis patron, not only copies of all the letters which he himself 
wrote, but those which, from time to time, he received. He 
had several correspondents, but the chief of tliose were his 
mother and his eldest sister. The sentiments contained in 
their letters breatlied the most appropriate simplicity and ten- 
derness, and flowed, with the nicest propriety, from the dif- 
ferent relationships of mother and sister. Tlie style and even 
the penmanship were distinct and characteristical. 


ORMOND. 


9 


One of the first of these epistles was mitten by the mother 
to Mr. Dudley, on being informed by her son of his present 
engagement. It was dictated by that concern for the welfare 
of her cliild befitting the maternal character. Gratitude, for 
the ready acceptance of the youth’s services, and for the be- 
nignity of his deportment towards him, a just representation 
of wliich had been received by her from the boy himself, was 
expressed with no inconsiderable elegance ; as well as her 
earnest Wishes that Mr. Dudley should extend to him not 
only the indulgence, but the moral superintendence of a 
parent. 

To this Mr. Dudley conceived it incumbent upon him to 
return a consenting answer, and letters were in this manner 
occasionally interchanged between them. 

Tilings remained in this situation for three years, during 
wliich period every day enhanced the reputation of Craig, 
for stability and integrity. A sort of provisional engagement 
had been made between the parents, unattended however by 
any legal or formal act, that things should remain on their 
present footing for three years. Wlien this period terminated, 
it seemed as if a new engagement had become necessaiy. 
Craig expressed the utmost willingness to renew the former 
contract, but his master began to think that the services of 
his pupil merited a higher recompense. He ascribed the 
prosperity that had hitherto attended him, to the disinterested 
exertions of his apprentice. His social and literary gratifica- 
tions had been increased by the increase of liis leisure. 
These were capable of being still more enlarged. He had 
not yet acquhed what he deemed a sufficiency, and could 
not therefore wholly relieve himself from the turmoils and 
humiliation of a professional life. He concluded that he 
should at once consult his own interest and perform no more 
than an act of justice to a faithful servant, by making Craig 
his partner, and allowing him a share of the profits, on con- 
dition of his discharging all the duties of the trade. 

When this scheme was proposed to Craig, he professed 
unbounded gratitude, considered all that he had done as 
amply rewarded by the pleasure of performance, and as 
being nothing more than was prescribed by his duty. He 
promised that this change in his situation should have no other 
effect, than to furnish new incitements to diligence and fidel- 


10 


ORMOND. 


ity, in the promotion of an interest, which would then become, 
in a still higher degree than formerly, a common one. Mr. 
Dudley communicated his intention to Craig’s mother, who, 
in addition to many grateful acknowledgments, stated that a 
Idnsman of her son, had enabled him, in case of entering into 
partnership, to add a small sum to the common stock, and 
that, for tfds sum, Craig was authorized to draw upon a Lon- 
don banker. 

The proposed arrangement was speedily effected. Craig 
was charged with the management of all affairs, and Mr. 
Dudley retired to the enjoyment of still greater leisure. Two 
years elapsed, and notliing occurred to interrupt the harmony 
that subsisted between the partners. Mr. Dudley’s condition 
might be esteemed prosperous. His wealth was constantly 
accumulating. He had nearly attained all that he wished, 
and his wishes still aimed at nothing less than splendid opu- 
lence. He had annually increased the permanent sources of 
his revenue. His daughter was the only survivor of many 
children, who perished in their infancy, before habit and ma- 
turity had rendered the parental tie difficult to break. This 
daughter had already exhibited proofs of a mind susceptible 
of high improvement, and the loveliness of her person prom- 
ised to keep pace with her mental acquisitions. He charged 
himself with the care of her education, and found no weari- 
ness or satiety in this task that might not be amply relieved 
by the recreations of science and literature. He flattered 
himself that his career, which had hitherto been exempt from 
any considerable impediment, would terminate in tranquillity. 
Few men might, with more propriety, have discarded all ap- 
prehensions respecting futurity. 

Craig had several sisters and one brotlier, younger than 
himself. Mr. Dudley, desirous of promoting ffie happiness 
of this family, proposed to send for this brother, and have him 
educated to his own profession, insinuating to his partner that, 
at the time when the boy should have gained sufficient sta- 
bility and knowledge, he himself might be disposed to relin- 
quish the profession altogether, on terms particularly advan- 
tageous to the two brotliers, who might thenceforth conduct 
their business jointly. Craig had been eloquent in praise of 
this lad, and his testimony had, from time to time, been con- 
firmed b^ that of his motlier and sister. He had often ex- 


ORMOND. 


11 


pressed his wishes for the prosperity of tlie lad, and when his 
modier had expressed her doubts as to the best mediod of 
disposing of him, modestly requested Mr. Dudley’s advice 
on this head. The proposal, therefore, might be supposed 
to be particularly acceptable, and yet Craig expressed reluc- 
tance to concur with it. This reluctance was accompanied 
witli certain tokens which sufficiently showed whence it arose. 
Craig appeared unwilling to increase those obligations under 
which he already labored. His sense of gratitude was too 
acute to allow him to heighten it by the reception of new 
benefits. 

It might be imagined that this objection would be easily 
removed ; but the obstinacy of Craig’s opposition was invin- 
cible. Mr. Dudley could not relinquish a scheme to which 
no stronger objection could be made. And, since his partner 
could not be prevailed upon to make this proposal to the 
friends of tlie lad, he was determined to do it himself. He 
maintained an intercourse by letters with several of those 
friends which he formed in his youth. One of them usually 
resided in London. From him he received about this time, a 
letter, in which, among other information, tlie writer mention- 
ed his intention of setting out on a tour through Yorkshire and 
the Scottish highlands. Mr. Dudley thought this a suitable 
opportunity for executing his design in favor of young Craig. 
He entertained no doubts about the worth and condition 
of tills family, but was still desirous of obtaining some in- 
formation on this head from one who would pass tlirough 
tliis town where they resided, who would examine with his 
own eyes, and on whose discernment and integrity he could 
place an implicit reliance. He concealed this intention from 
his partner, and entrusted his letter to a friend who was just 
embarking for Europe. In due season he received an an- 
swer, confirming, in all respects, Craig’s representations, but 
informing him tliat the lad had been lately disposed of in a 
way not equally advantageous witli tliat which Mr. Dudley 
had proposed, but such as would not admit of change. 

If doubts could possibly be entertained respecting the char- 
acter and views of Craig, this evidence would have dispelled 
them. But plans however skilfully contrived, if founded on 
imposture, cannot fail of being sometimes detected. Craig 
had occasion to be absent from the city for some weeks. 


ORMOND. 


Meanwhile a letter had been left at his lodgings by one who 
merely inquired if tliat were tlie dwelling of Mr. Dudley, 
and being answered by the servant in the affirmative, left the 
letter without fartlier parley. It was superscribed with a 
name unknown to any of the family, and in a hand which its 
badness rendered almost illegible. The servant placed it in 
a situation to be seen by his master. 

Mr. Dudley allowed it to remain unopened for a consid- 
erable time. At length, deeming it excusable to discover, 
by any means, the person to whom it was addressed, he ven- 
tured to unseal it. It was dated at Portsmouth in New- 
Hampshire. The signature was Mary Mansfield. It was 
addressed to her son, and was a curious specimen of illite- 
rateness. Mary herself was unable to write, as she reminds 
her son, and had therefore procured the assistance of Mrs. 
Dewitt, for whose family she washed. The amanuensis was 
but little superior in the arts of penmanship to her principal. 
The contents of the epistle were made out with some difii- 
culty. This was the substance of it. 

Maiy reproaches her son for deserting her, and letting five 
years pass aw ay without allowing her to hear firom him. She 
informed him of her distresses as they flowed from sickness 
and poverty, and were aggravated by the loss of her son who 
was so handsome and promising a lad. She related her mar- 
riage with Zekel Haclmey, who first brought her tidings of her 
boy. He was master, it seems, of a fishing smack, and 
voyaged sometimes to New-York. In one of Ins visits to this 
city, he met a mighty spry young man, in whom he thought 
he recognized his wife’s son. He had traced him to the 
house of Mr. Dudley, and on inquiry, discovered that the 
lad resided here. On his return he communicated the tid- 
ings to his spouse, who had now written to reproach him for 
his neglect of liis poor old mother, and to intreat his assist- 
ance to relieve her from the necessity of drudging for her 
liveliliood. 

This letter was capable of an obvious construction. It 
was, no doubt, founded m mistake, though, it was to be ac- 
knowledged, tliat the mistake was singular. Such was the 
conclusion immediately formed by Mr. Dudley. He quiet- 
ly replaced the letter on the mantelpiece, where it had be- 
fore stood, and dismissed tlie affair from his thoughts. 


ORMOND. 


13 


Next day Craig returned from his journey. Mr. Dudley 
was employed in examining some papers in a desk that stood 
behind the door, in die apartment in which the letter was 
placed. There was no other person in die room when 
Craig entered it. He did not perceive Mr. Dudley, who 
was screened from observation, by his silence and by an open 
door. As soon as he entered, Mr. Dudley looked at him, 
and made no haste to speak. The letter whose superscrip- 
tion was turned towards him, immediately attracted Craig’s 
attention. He seized it with some degree of eagerness, and 
observing the broken seal, thrust it hastily into his pocket, 
muttering, at the same time, in a tone, betokening a mixture 
of consternation and anger, “ Damn it. ” — He immediately 
left the room, still uninformed of the presence of Mr. Dud- 
ley, who began to muse, with some earnestness, on what he 
had seen. Soon after he left this room and went into anoth- 
er, in wliich the family usually sat. In about twenty min- 
utes, Craig made his appearance with his usual freedom and 
plausibility. Complimentary and customary topics were dis- 
cussed. Mrs. Dudley and her daughter were likewise pre- 
sent. Tlie uneasiness which the incident just mentioned had 
occasioned in the mind of Mr. Dudley, was at first dispelled 
by the disembarrassed behavior of his partner, but new 
matter of suspicion was speedily afforded him. He observed 
that his partner spoke of his present entrance as of the first 
since his arrival, and that when the lady mentioned that he 
had been the subject of a curious mistake, a letter being di- 
rected to him by a strange name, and left there during his 
absence, he pretended total ignorance of tlie circumstance. 
The young lady was immediately directed by her mother to 
bring the letter which lay, she said, on the mantel-tree in the 
next room. 

During this scene Mr. Dudley was silent. He anticipated 
the disappointment of the messenger, believing the letter 
to have been removed. What then was his surprise when 
the messenger returned bearing the letter in her hand ! Craig 
examined and read it, and commented, with great mirth, on 
the contents, acting, all the while, as if he had never seen it 
before. These appearances were not qualified to quiet sus- 
picion. The more Dudley brooded over them, the more 
2 


14 


ORMOND. 


dissatisfied he became. He, however, concealed his thoughts 
as well from Craig liimself as his family, impatiently waiting 
for some new occurrence to ai’ise by which he might square 
his future proceedings. 

During Craig’s absence, Mrs. Dudley had thought this a 
proper occasion for cleaning his apartment. The furniture, 
and among the rest, a large chest strongly fastened, was re- 
moved into an adjoining room wliich was otherwise unoccu- 
pied, and which was usually kept locked. When the clean- 
sing w^as finished, the furniture was replaced, except tliis 
trunk, which its bulk, the indolence of the servant, and her 
opinion of its uselessness, occasioned her to leave in the 
closet. 

About a week after this, on a Saturday evening, Craig 
invited to sup with him a friend, who was to embark, on the 
ensuing Monday, for Jamaica. During supper, at which 
the family were present, tlie discourse turned on the voyage 
on which the guest was about to enter. In the course of talk, 
the stranger expressed how much he stood in need of a strong 
and commodious chest, in wliich he might safely deposit 
his clothes and papers. Not being apprized of the early 
departure of the vessel, he had deferred till it was too late, 
applying to an artisan. 

Craig desired him to set himself at rest on that head, for 
that he had, in his possession, just such a trunk as he describ- 
ed. It was of no use to him, being long filled with nothing 
better than refuse and lumber, and that, if he would, he 
might send for it the next morning. He turned to Mrs. 
Dudley and observed, that the trunk to which he alluded 
was in her possession, and he would thank her to direct its 
removal into his own apartment, that he might empty it of 
its present contents, and prepare it for the service of his 
fiiend. To this she readily assented. 

There was nothing mysterious in this affair, but the mind 
of Mr. Dudley was pained widi doubts. He was now as 
prone to suspect, as he was formerly disposed to confidence. 
This evening he put the key of the closet in his ovm pocket. 
When inquii-ed for the next day, it was, of course, missing. 
It could not be found on the most diligent search. The oc- 
casion was not of such moment as to justify brealdng the 
door. Mr. Dudley imagined that he saw, in Craig, more 


ORMOND. 


15 


uneasiness at this disappointment, than he was willing to ex- 
press. There was no remedy. Tlie chest remained where 
it was, and, next morning, the ship departed on her voyage. 

Craig accompanied his friend on board, was prevailed up- 
on to go to sea with him, designing to return with the pilot- 
boat, but when the pilot was preparing to leave the vessel, 
such was this man’s complaisance to the wishes of his friend, 
tliat he concluded to perform the remainder of the voyage 
in his company. The consequences are easily seen. Craig 
had gone with a resolution of never returning. The unhap- 
py Dudley was left to deplore the total ruin of his fortune 
which had fallen a prey to tlie arts of a subtle imposter. 

Tlie chest was opened, and the part which Craig had been 
playing for some years, with so much success, was perfectly 
explained. It appeared that the sum which Craig had con- 
tributed to the common stock, when first admitted into part- 
nership, had been previously purloined from die daily receipts 
of his shop, of which an exact register was kept. Craig 
had been so indiscreet as to preserve this accusing record, 
and it was discovered in diis depository. He was the son of 
Mary Mansfield, and a native of Portsmoudi. The history 
of the Wakefield family, specious and complicated as it was, 
was entirely fictitious. Tlie letters had been forged, and the 
correspondence supported by his own dexterity. . Here was 
found the letter which Mr. Dudley had written to his firiend 
requesting him to make certain inquiries at Wakefield, and 
wliich he imagined that he had delivered with his own hands 
to a trusty bearer. Here was the original draught of the an- 
swer he received. The manner in which this stratagem had 
been accomplished came gradually to light. The letter 
which was written to the Yorkshire traveller had been pur- 
loined, and another, with a similar superscription, in which 
the hand of Dudley was exactly imitated, and containing 
only brief and general remarks, had been placed in its stead. 
Craig must have suspected its contents, and by this suspicion 
have been incited to the theft. The answer which the Eng^ 
lishman had really WTitten, and which sufficiently corres- 
ponded with the forged letter, had been intercepted by Craig, 
and furnished him a model from wliich he might construct 
an answer adapted to his own purposes. 

TfTiis imposture had not been sustained for a trivial pur- 


16 


ORMOND. 


pose. He had embezzled a large share of the stock, and 
had employed the credit of the house to procure extensive 
remittances to be made to an agent at a distance, by whom 
the property was effectually secured. Craig had gone to 
participate these spoils, while the whole estate of Mr. Dud- 
ley was insufficient to pay tlie demands tliat were consequent- 
ly made upon him. 

It was his lot to fall into the grasp of men, who squared 
their actions by no other standard than law, and who esteem- 
ed every claim to be incontestibly just, that could plead that 
sanction. They did not indeed throw him into prison. 
When they had despoiled him of every remnant of his pro- 
perty, they deemed themselves entitled to his gratitude for 
leaving his person unmolested. 


CHAPTER n. 

Thus in a moment was this man thrown from the summit 
of affluence to the lowest indigence. He had been habitu- 
ated to independence and ease. This reverse, therefore, was 
the harder to bear. His present situation was much worse 
than at his father’s death. Then he was sanguine with youth 
and glowing with health. He possessed a fund on which he 
could commence his operations. Materials were at hand, 
and nothing was wanted but skill to use them. Now he had 
advanced in life. His frame was not exempt from infirmity. 
He had so long reposed on the bosom of opulence and en- 
joyed the respect attendant on wealth, that he felt himself 
totally incapacitated for a new station. His misfortune had 
not been foreseen. It was embittered by the consciousness 
of his own imprudence, and by recollecting that the serpent 
which had stung him, was nurtured in his own bosom. 

It was not merely fi-ugal fare and an humble dwelling to 
which he was condemned. The evils to be dreaded were 
beggary and contempt. Luxury and leisure were not mere- 
ly denied him. He must bend all his efforts to procure 
clothing and food, to preserve his family from nakedness 
and famine. His spirit would not brook dependence. To 
live upon charity, or to take advantage of tlie compassion of 


ORMOND. 


i; 


ills friends, was a destiny far worse than any other. To this 
therefore he would not consent. However irksome and 
painful it might prove, he determined to procure his bread 
by the labor of his hands. 

But to what scene or kind of employment should he be- 
take himself'? He could not endure to exhibit this reverse of 
fortune on the same theatre which had witnessed his prosperi- 
ty. One of his first measures was to remove from New York 
to Philadelphia. How should he employ himself in his new 
abode *? Painting, the art in which he was expert, would not 
afford him the means of subsistence. Though no despicable 
musician, he did not esteem himself qualified to be a teach- 
er of this ait. This profession, besides, was treated by his 
new neighbors, \vith general, though unmerited contempt 
There were few tilings on wfoich he prided himself more than 
on the facilities and elegancies of his penmanship. He was 
besides well acquainted with arithmetic and accompting. 
He concluded therefore, to offer his services as a writer in a 
public office. This employment demanded little bodily ex- 
ertion. He had spent much of his time at the book and the 
desk ; his new occupation, therefore, was further recommend- 
ed by its resemblance to his ancient modes of life. 

Tlie first situation of tliis Idnd, for which he applied, he 
obtained. The duties were constant, but not otherwise toil- 
some or arduous. Tlie emoluments were slender, but by 
contracting, witliin limits as narrow as possible, his expenses, 
they could be made subservient to the mere purposes of sub- 
sistence. He hired a small house in the suburbs of the city. 
It consisted of a room above and below, and a kitchen. 
His wife, daughter, and one girl, composed its inhabitants. 

I As long as his mind was occupied in projecting and execu- 
[ ting tliese arrangements, it was diverted from uneasy contem- 
j plations. When his life became uniform, and day followed 
j day in monotonous succession, and tlie novelty of his employ- 
! ment had disappeared, his cheerfulness began likewise to 
fade, and was succeeded by unconquerable melancholy. 
His present condition was in every respect the contrast of his 
former. His servitude was intolerable. He was associated 
with sorded hirelings, gross and uneducated, who treated his 
age with rude familiarity, and insulted his eais with ribaldry 
1 2 ^ 


18 


ORMOND. 


and scurril jests. He was subject to command, and had his 
portion of daily drudgery allotted to him, to be performed for 
a pittance no more than would buy the bread which he daily 
consumed. The task assigned liim was technical and for- 
mal. He was perpetually encumbered with the rubbish of 
law, and waded with laborious steps through its endless tau- 
tologies, its impertinent circuities, its lying assertions, and 
hateful artifices. Nothing occurred to relieve or diversify the 
scene. It was one tedious round of scrawling and jargon ; 
a tissue made up of the shreds and remnants of barbarous 
antiquity, polluted with the rust of ages, and patched by the 
stupidity of modern workmen, into new deformity. 

When the day’s task was finished, jaded spirits, and a 
body enfeebled by reluctant application, were but little adapt- 
ed to domestic enjoyments. Tliese indeed were incompati- 
ble with a temper like his, to whom the privation of the 
comforts that attended his former condition, was equivalent 
to the loss of life. These privations were still more painful 
to his wife, and her deatli added one more calamity to those 
under which he already gi'oaned. He had always loved her 
with the tenderest affection, and he justly regarded this evil 
as surpassing all his former woes. 

But his destiny seemed never weary of persecuting liim. 
It was not enough that he should fall a victim to the most atro- 
cious arts, that he should weai’ out liis days in solitude and 
drudgeiy, that he should feel not only die personal restraints 
and hardships attendant upon indigence, but the keener pangs 
that result from negligence and contumely. He w^as imper- 
fectly recovered from the shock occasioned by the death of 
his wife, when his sight w^as invaded by a cataract. Its pro- 
gress w as rapid, and terminated in total blindness. 

He was now disabled fi'om pursuing his usual occupation. 
He was shut out from the light of heaven, and debarred of 
every human comfort. Condemned to eternal dark, and 
worse than the helplessness of infancy, he was dependent for 
the meanest offices on the kindness of others, and he who had 
formerly abounded in tlie gifts of fortune, thought only of 
ending his days in a gaol or an almshouse. 

His situation however was alleviated by one circumstance. 
He had a daughter, whom I have formerly mentioned, as the 
only survivor of many cliildren. She was sixteen years of 


ORMOND. 


19 

age when the storm of adversity fell upon her father’s house. 
It may be tliought tliat one educated as she had been, in the 
gratification of all her wishes, and at an age of timidity and 
inexperience, would have been less fitted than her father for 
encountering misfortune ; and yet, when the task of comforter 
fell upon her, her strength was not found wanting. Her for- 
titude was immediately put to tlie test. This reverse did not 
only affect her obliquely, and through the medium of her 
family, but directly, and in one way usually very distressful to 
female feelings. 

Her fortune and character had attracted many admirers. 
One of tliem had some reason to flatter himself with success. 
jMiss Dudley’s notions had little in common with tliose around 
her. She had learned to square her conduct, in a consider- 
able degree, not by the hasty impulses of inclination, but by 
the dictates of truth. She yielded nothing to caprice or pas- 
sion. Not that she w^as perfectly exempt from intervals of 
weakness, or from the necessity of painful struggles, but these 
intervals were transient, and these struggles always success- 
ful. She was no stranger to tlie pleadings of love, from the 
lips of others, and in her o\vn bosom, but its tumults were 
brief, and speedily gave place to quiet thoughts and steadfast 
purposes. 

She had listened to the solicitations of one, not unwortliy 
in himself, and amply recommended by the circumstances of 
family and fortune. He was young, and therefore impetuous. 
Of tlie good that he sought, he was not willing to delay the 
acquisition for a moment. She had been taught a very dif- 
ferent lesson. Marriage included vows of irrevocable affec- 
tion and obedience. It was a contract to endure for life. To 
form tliis connexion in extreme youth, before time had un- 
folded and modelled the characters of the parties, was, in her 
opinion, a proof of pernicious and opprobrious temerity. Not 
to perceive tlie propriety of delay in this case, or to be re- 
gardless of the motives that would enjoin upon us a deliberate 
procedure, furnished an unanswerable objection to any man’s 
pretensions. She was sensible, however, that this, like other 
mistakes, was curable. If her arguments failed to remove it, 
time, it w^as likely, would effect tliis purpose. If she rejected 
a matrimonial proposal for the present, it was for reasons 
that might not preclude her future acceptance of it. 


20 


ORMOND. 


Her scruples, in the present case, did not relate to tiie tein^ 
per, or person, or imderstaiidiiig of her lover, but to his age, to 
the imperfectness of their acquaintance, and to the want of that 
permanence of character which can flow only from the pro- 
gress of time and iaiowledge. These objections, which so 
rarely exist, were conclusive with her. There was no danger 
of her relinquishing them in compliance with the remonstrances 
of parents and the solicitations of her lover, though the one 
and the other were urged with all the force of authority and 
insinuation. The , prescriptions of duty were too clear to 
allow her to hesitate and waver, but the consciousness of rec- 
titude could not secure her from temporary vexations. 

Her parents were blemished with some of the frailties of 
that character. They held themselves entitled to prescribe 
in this article, but they forbore to exert their power. They 
condescended to persuade, but it was manifest, that they re- 
garded tlieir own conduct as a relaxation of right ; and, had 
not the lover’s importunities suddenly ceased, it is not possi- 
ble to tell how far the happiness of Miss Dudley might have 
been endangered. The misfortunes of her fatlier were no 
sooner publicly known, than the youth forbore his visits, and 
embarked on a voyage which he had long projected, but 
which had been hitherto delayed by a superior regard to the 
interests of his passion. 

It must be allowed tliat the lady had not foreseen this 
event. She had exercised her judgment upon liis charac- 
ter, and had not been deceived. Before this desertion, had 
it been clearly stated to her apprehension, she would have 
readily admitted it to be probable. She knew the fascination 
of wealth, and the delusiveness of self-confidence. She was 
superior to tlie folly of supposing him exempt from sinister 
influences, and deaf to the whispers of ambition, and yet the 
manner in which she was affected by this event, convinced 
her that her heart had a larger share than her reason in dic- 
tating her expectations. 

Yet it must not be supposed that she suffered any very 
acute distress^ on tliis account. She was grieved less for her 
own sake than his. She had no design of entering into mar- 
riage, in less than seven years from this period. Not a single 
hope, relative to her own condition, had been frustrated. 
She had only been mistaken in her favorable conceptions of 


ORMOND. 


21 


another. He had exhibited less constancy and virtue than 
her heart had taught her to expect. 

With those opinions, she could devote herself, with a single 
heart, to the alleviation of her parents’ sorrows. This change 
in her condition she treated lightly, and retained her cheer- 
fulness unimpaired. This happened because, in a rational 
estimate, and so far as it affected herself, the misfortune was 
slight, and because her dejection w^ould only tend to augment 
the disconsolateness of her parents, while, on the other hand, 
her serenity was calculated to infuse the same confidence into 
them. She indulged herself in no fits of exclamation or 
moodiness. She listened in silence to their iiwectives and 
laments, and seized every opportunity that offered to inspire 
them witli courage, to set before them the good, as w^ell as ill, 
to which they were reserved, to suggest expedients for im- 
proving their condition, and to soften the asperities of his new 
mode of life, to her father, by every species of blandishment 
and tenderness. 

She refused no personal exertion to the common benefit. 
She incited her father to diligence, as well by her example, 
as by her exhortations ; suggested plans, and superintended 
or assisted in tlie execution of them. The infirmities of sex 
and age vanished before the motives to courage and activity 
flowdng from her new situation. When settled in his new 
abode, and profession, she began to deliberate what conduct 
was incumbent on herself, how she might participate, with her 
father, the burthen of the common maintenance, and blunt 
the edge of tliis calamity by the resources of a powerful and 
cultivated mind. 

In the first place, she disposed of every superfluous garb 
and trinket. She reduced her wardrobe to the plainest and 
cheapest establishment. By tliis means alone, she supplied 
her father’s necessities with a considerable sum. Her music 
and even her books were not spared, not from the slight 
esteem in which tliese were held by her, but because she was 
thenceforth to become an economist of time as w^ell as of 
money, because musical instniments are not necessary to the 
practice of this art in its highest perfection, and because, 
books, when she should procure leisure to read, or money to 
purchase them, might be obtained in a cheaper and more 
oommodious form, than those costly and splendid volumes, 


22 


ORMOND. 


with wliich her father’s munificence had formerly supplied 
her. 

To make her expenses as limited as possible, was her next 
care. For this end she assumed the province of cook, the 
washing of house and clothes, and the cleansing of forni- 
ture. Their house was small, tlie family consisted of no 
more than four persons, and all formality and expensiveness 
were studiously discarded, but her strengtli was unequal to 
unavoidable tasks. A vigorous constitution could not sup- 
ply the place of laborious habits, and this part of her plan 
must have been changed for one less frugal. The aid of a 
servant must have been hired, if it had not been furnished 
by gratitude. 

Some years before this misfortune, her mother had taken 
under her protection a girl, the daughter of a poor woman, 
who subsisted by labour, and who dying, left this child with- 
out friend or protector. Tliis girl possessed no very im- 
provable capacity, and therefore, could not benefit by tlie 
benevolent exertions of her young mistress as much as the 
latter desired, but her temper was artless and affectionate, 
and she attached herself to Constantia with the most entire 
devotion. In this change of fortune she would not consent 
to be separated, and Miss Dudley, influenced by her affec- 
tion to her Lucy, and reflecting that on the whole it was 
most to her advantage to share with her, at once, her kind- 
ness and her poverty, retained her as her companion. With 
tliis girl she shared the domestic duties, scrupling not to 
divide with her the meanest and most rugged, as well as the 
lightest offices. 

This was not all. She, in the next place, considered 
whether her ability extended no farther than to save. Could 
she not by the employment of her hands increase the in- 
come as well as diminish the expense Why should she 
be precluded from all lucrative occupation 9 She soon 
came to a resolution. She was mistress of her needle, and 
tliis skill she conceived herself bound to employ for her own 
subsistence. 

Clothing is one of the necessaries of human existence. 
The art of the tailor is scarcely of less use than that of 
the tiller of the ground. There are few the gains of which 
ai’e better merited, and less injurious to the principles of hu- 


ORMOND. 


23 


man society. She resolved therefore to become a workwo- 
man, and to employ in this way, the leisure she possessed 
from household avocations. To this scheme she was obliged 
to reconcile not only herself but her parents. Tlie con- 
quest of theii' prejudices was no easy task, but her patience 
and skill finally succeeded, and she procured needle w^ork 
in sujfticient quantity to enable her to enhance in no trivial 
degree, the common fund. 

It is one thing barely to comply witli the urgencies of the 
case, and to do that which, in necessitous ciicumstances is 
best. But to conform with grace and cheerfulness, to yield 
no place to fruitless recriminations and repinings, to contract 
the evils into as small a compass as possible, and extract 
from our condition aU possible good, is a task of a different 
kind. 

Mr. Dudley’s situation required from him frugality and 
diligence. He was regular and unintermitted in his appli- 
cation to his pen. He was frugal. His slender income was 
administered agreeably to the maxims of his daughter ; but 
he was unhappy. He experienced in its full extent the 
bitterness of disappointment. 

He gave himself up for the most part to a listless melan- 
choly. Sometimes his impatience would produce effects 
less excusable ; and conjure up an accusing and irascible 
spirit. His wife and even his daughter he would make the 
objects of peevish and absurd reproaches. These were 
moments when her heart drooped indeed, and her tears 
could not be restrained fiom flowing. Tliese fits w^ere 
transitory and rare, and when they had passed, the father 
seldom failed to mingle tokens of contrition and repentance 
with the tears of his daughter. Her arguments and south- 
ings w^ere seldom disappointed of success. Her mother’s 
disposition was soft and pliant, but she could not accommo- 
date herself to the necessity of her husband’s affairs. She 
w^as obliged to endure the want of some indulgences, but 
she reserved to herself the liberty of complaining, and to 
subdue this spirit in her was found utterly impracticable. 
She died a victim to discontent. 

Tliis event deepened the gloom that shrouded the soul 
of her father, ai^.d reridered the task of consolation still more 
difficult. She did not despair. Her swx’etness and patience 


ORMOND. 


24 

was invincible by any thing that had already happened, but 
her fortitude did not exceed the standard of human nature. 
Evils now began to menace her, to which it is likely she 
would have yielded, had not their approach been intercepted 
by an evil of a different kind. 

The pressure of grief is sometimes such as to prompt us 
to seek a refuge in voluntary death. We must lay aside the 
burthen wliich we cannot sustain. If thought degenerate 
into a vehicle of pam, what remains but to destroy that 
vehicle 9 For this end, death is the obvious, but not tlie 
only, or morally speaking, the worst means. There is one 
metliod of obtaining the bliss of forgetfulness, in compaidson 
with which suicide is innocent. 

The strongest mind is swayed by circumstances. There 
is no firmness of integrity, perhaps, able to repel every 
species of temptation, which is produced by the present 
constitution of human affairs, and yet temptation is success- 
ful, chiefly hy wrtue of its gradual and invisible approaches. 
We rush into danger, because we are not aware of its ex- 
istence, and have not therefore provided the means of safety, 
and the daemon that seizes us is hourly reinforced by habit. 
Our opposition grows fainter in proportion as our adversary 
acquires new strength, and the man becomes enslaved by 
the most sordid vices, w^hose fall would, at a former period, 
have been deemed impossible, or who -would have been im- 
agined liable to any species of depravity, more than to this. 

Mr. Dudley’s education had entailed upon him many 
errors, yet who would have supposed it possible for him to 
be enslaved by a depraved appetite ; to be enamoured of 
low debauchery, and to grasp at the happiness that intoxi- 
cation had to bestow This was a mournful period in 
Constantia’s history. My feelings will not suffer me to 
dwell upon it. I cannot describe the manner in wliich 
she w^as affected by the first symptoms of this depravity, tlie 
struggles which she made to counteract this dreadful infatu- 
ation, and tlie grief w hich she experienced from the repeat- 
ed miscarriage of her efforts. I will not detail her vaiious 
expedients for this end, the appeals which she made to his 
understanding, to his sense of honor and dread of infamy, 
to the gratitude to w^hich she was entitled, and to the injunc- 
tions of parental duty. I wall not detail I'is fits of remorse, 


ORMOND. 


‘25 


his fruitless penitence, and continual relapses, nor depict the 
heart-breaking scenes of uproar and violence, and Ibul dis- 
grace that accompained liis parox3^sms of drunkenness. 

Tlie only intellectual amusement which tliis lady allowed 
herself was writing. She enjoyed one distant friend, with 
whom she maintained an uninterrupted correspondence, and 
to whom she confided a circumstantial and copious relation 
of all these particulars. That friend is die wTiter of these 
memoirs. It is not impossible but that these letters may be 
communicated to the world, at some future period. The 
picture w^hich they exhibit is hourly exemplified and realized, 
though, in the many colored scenes of human life, none 
surpasses it in disastrousness and horror. My eyes almost 
wept themselves chy over diis part of her tale. 

In this state of things Mr. Dudley’s blindness might justly 
be accounted, even in its immediate effects, a fortunate event. 
It dissolved die spell, by wliich he was bound, and wliich, 
it is probable, would never have been otherwise broken. 
It restored him to himself and showed him, with a distinct- 
ness wliich made him shudder, the gulf to which he was 
hastening. But nothing can compensate to the sufferer die 
evils of blindness. It was the business of Constantia’s life 
to alleviate those sufferings, to cherish and console her father, 
and to rescue liim, by the labor of her hands from de- 
pendence on public charity. For this end, her industry and 
solicitude were never at rest. She was able, by that indus- 
try, to provide him and herself with necessaries. Tlieii* 
portion was scanty, and, if it sometimes exceeded the stand- 
ard of their wants, not less frequently fell short of it. For 
all her toils and disquietudes she esteemed herself fully com- 
pensated by the smiles of her father. He indeed could sel- 
dom be prompted to smile, or to suppress the dictates of 
that despair which flowed from his sense of this new calamity, 
and the aggravations of hardship, wliich liis recent insobrieties 
had occasioned to his daughter. 

She purchased what books her scanty stock would allow, 
and borrowed others. These she read to him when her 
engagements would permit. At other times she was accus- 
tomed to solace herself with her own music. The lute 
which her father had purchased in Italy, and which had 
d 


ORMOND. 


been disposed of among the rest of his effects, at public 
sale, had been gratuitously restored to him by tlie purchaser, 
on condition of bis retaining it in his possession. His blind- 
ness and inoccupation now broke tlie long silence to which 
this instrument had been condemned, and afforded an ac- 
companiment to the young lady’s voice. 

Her chief employment was conversation. She resorted 
to this as the best means of brealdng the monotony of the 
scene ; but tliis purpose was not only accomplished, but oth- 
er benefits of the highest value accrued from it. The hab- 
its of a painter eminently tended to vi\dfy and make exact 
her father’s conceptions and delineations of visible objects. 
The sphere of his youtliful observation comprised more in- 
gredients of the picturesque, than any other sphere. The 
most precious materials of the moral history of mankind, are 
derived from the revolutions of Italy. Italian features and 
landscape constitute the chosen field of the artist. No one 
had more carefully explored this field than IVIr. Dudley. 
His time, when abroad, had been divided between residence 
at Rome, and excursions to Calabria and Tuscany. Few 
impressions were effaced from liis capacious register, and 
these were now rendered by his eloquence, neai-ly as con- 
spicuous to his companion as to himself. 

She was imbued with an ardent thirst of knowledge, and 
by the acuteness of her remarks, and the judiciousness ol 
her inquiries, reflected back upon his understanding as much 
improvement as she received. These efforts to render his 
calamity tolerable, mid inure him to the profiting by his own 
resources, were aided by time, and, when reconciled by 
habit to unrespited gloom, he was, sometimes, visited by 
gleams of cheerfulness, and drew advantageous comparisons 
between his present and former situation. A stillness not un- 
akin to happiness, frequently diffused itself over their winter 
evenings. Constantia enjoyed, in theii* full extent, the felic- 
ities of healtli and self-approbation. The genius and elo- 
quence of her father, nourished by perpetual exercise, and 
undiverted from its purpose by the intrusion of visible objects, 
frequently afforded her a delight in comparison witli wliich 
all other pleasures were mean. 


ORMOND. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 

This period of tranquillity was short. Poverty hovered 
at their tlireshold, and in a state precarious as their’s, could 
not be long excluded. Tlie lady was more accustomed to 
anticipate good than evil, but she was not unconscious that 
the winter, which was hastening, would bring with it nume- 
rous inconveniences. Wants during that season are multi- 
plied, while the means of supplying them eidier fail or are 
diminished. Fuel is alone, a cause of expense equal to all 
other ai'ticles of subsistence. Her dwelling was old, crazy, 
and full of avenues to air. It was evident that neitlier fire 
nor clothing would, in an habitation like that, attemper the 
cliilling blasts. Her scanty gains were equal to their needs, 
during summer, but would probably fall short during the pre- 
valence of cold. 

These reflections could not fail sometimes to intrude. 
She indulged them as long as they served merely to suggest 
expedients and provisions for the future, but labored to call 
away her attention when they merely produced anxiety. 
Tins she more easily effected, as some months of summer 
were still to come, and her knowledge of the vicissitudes to 
which human life is subject, taught her to rely upon the 
occurrence of some fortunate, though unforeseen event. 

Accident suggested an expedient of this kind. Passing 
through an alley, in tlie upper part of the town, her eye was 
caught by a label on the door of a small house, signifying 
that it was to be let. It was smaller than that she at present 
occupied, but it had an aspect of much greater comfort and 
neatness. Its situation, near the centre of the city, in a 
quiet, cleanly, and well paved alley, was far preferable to 
that of her present habitation, in the suburbs, scarcely ac- 
cessible in winter, for pools and gulleys, and in a neigh- 
borhood abounding with indigence and profligacy. She like- 
wise considered that the rent of this might be less, and that 
the proprietor of tliis might have more forbearance and 
benignity than she had hitherto met with. 

Uncon versant as she was with the world, imbued with the 
timidity of her sex and her youth, many enterprises were 
arduous to her, which would, to age and experience, have 


28 


ORMOND. 


been easy. Her reluctances, however, when required by 
necessity, were overcome, and all the measures which her 
situation prescribed, executed with address and despatch. 
One, marking her deportment, would have perceived notliing 
but dignity and courage. He would have regarded these 
as the fruits of habitual independence and exertion, whereas 
they were merely the results of clear perceptions and inflexi- 
ble resolves. 

The proprietor of this mansion was immediately sought 
out, and a bargain, favorable as she could reasonably desire, 
concluded. Possession was to be taken in a week. For 
this end carters and draymen were to be engaged, household 
implements to be prepared for removal, and negligence and 
knavery prevented by scrupulous attention. The duties of 
superintendence and execution devolved upon her. Her 
father’s blindness rendered him powerless. His personal 
ease required no small portion of care. Household and 
professional functions were not to be omitted. She stood 
alone in the world. There was none whose services or 
counsel she could claim. Tortured by multiplicity of cares, 
shrinking from exposure to rude eyes, and from contention 
with refractory and insolent spirits, and overpowered witli 
fatigue and disgust, she was yet compelled to retain a cheer- 
ful tone in her father’s presence, and to struggle with his 
regrets and his peevishness. 

O my friend ! Methinks I now see thee, encountering the 
sneers and obstinacy of the meanest of mankind, subjecting 
that frame of thine, so exquisitely delicate, and therefore so 
feeble, to the vilest drudgery. I see thee, leading thy un- 
happy fatlier to his new dw elling, and stifling the sighs pro- 
duced by his fruitless repinings and unseasonable scruples — 
Why was I not partaker of thy cares and labors 9 Why 
was I severed from thee by the ocean, and kept in ignorance 
of thy state 9 I was not without motives to anxiety, for I 
was friendless as thou, but how unlike to tliine was my con- 
dition ! I reposed upon dowm and tissue, never moved but 
with obsequious attendance and pompous equipage, painting 
and music were consolations ever at hand, and my cabinet 
was stored witli poetry and science. These, indeed, were 
insuflicient to exclude care, and witli regard to the past, I 
have no wish but that I had shared with my friend her toil- 


ORMOND. 


29 


some and humiliating lot. However an erroneous world 
might judge, thy life was full of dignity, and thy moments of 
happiness not few, since happiness is only attendant on the 
performance of our duty. 

A toilsome and sultry week was terminated by a sabbath 
of repose. Her new dwelling possessed indisputable ad- 
vantages over her old. Not the least of these benefits 
consisted in tlie vicinity of people, peaceable and honest, 
though poor. She was no longer shocked by the clamors 
of debauchery, and exposed, by her situation, to the danger 
of being mistaken by the profligate of either sex, for one of 
their own class. It was reasonable to consider this change 
of abode, as fortunate, and yet, circumstances quickly oc- 
curred which suggested a very different conclusion. 

She had no intercourse, which necessity did not prescribe, 
with the rest of the world. She screened herself as much 
as possible from intercourse with prying and loquacious 
neighbors. Her father’s inclination in this respect coincided 
with her own, though their love of seclusion was prompted 
by different motives. Visitants were hated by the father, 
because his dignity was hurt by communication with the 
vulgar. The daughter set too much value upon time wil- 
lingly to waste it upon trifles and triflers. She had no pride 
to subdue, and therefore never escaped from well meant 
importunity at the expense of politeness and good humor. 
In her moments of leisure, she betook herself to the poet 
and the moralist for relief. 

She could not at all times, suppress the consciousness of 
the evils which surrounded and threatened her. She could 
not but rightly estimate the absorbing and brutifying nature 
of that toil to which she was condemned. Literature had 
hitherto been regarded as her solace. She Imew that medi- 
tation and converse as well as books and the pen, are instru- 
ments of knowledge, but her musing thoughts were too often 
fixed upon her own condition. Her father’s soaring moods 
and luminous intervals grew less frequent. Conversation 
was too rarely abstracted from personal considerations, and 
strayed less often than before into the wilds of fancy or the 
mazes of analysis. 


30 


ORMOND. 


These circumstances led her to reflect whether subsis- 
tence might not he obtained by occupations purely intellect- 
ual. Instruction was needed by the young of both sexes. 
Females frequently performed the office of teachers. Was 
there no branch of her present knowledge which she might 
claim wages for imparting to others 9 Was there no art 
within her reach to acquire, convertible into means of gain 9 
Women are generally limited to what is sensual and orna- 
mental. Music and painting, and the Italian and French 
languages, are bounds which they seldom pass. In these 
pursuits it is not possible, nor is it expected, that they should 
arrive at the skill of adepts. The education of Constantia 
had been regulated by the peculiar views of her father, who 
sought to make her, not alluring and voluptuous, but eloquent 
and wise. He therefore limited her studies to Latin and 
English. Instead of familiarizing her with the amorous 
effusions of Petrarcha and Racine, he made her thoroughly 
conversant with Tacitus and Milton. Instead of making her 
a practical musician or pencilist, he conducted her to the 
school of Newton and Hartley, unveiled to her the mathe- 
matical properties of light and sound, taught her as a meta- 
physician and anatomist, the structure and power of the 
senses, and discussed with her the principles and progress 
of human society. 

These accomplishments tended to render her superior to 
the rest of women, but in no degree qualified her for the 
post of a female instructer. She saw and lamented her 
deficiencies, and gradually formed the resolution of supply- 
ing them. Her knowledge of the Latin tongue and of 
grammatical principles, rendered easy the acquisition of 
Italian and French, tliese being merely scions from tlie 
Roman stock. 

Having had occasion, previous to her change of dw^elling, 
to purchase paper at a bookseller’s, the man had offered her 
at a very low price, a second-hand copy of Veneroni’s gram- 
mar. The offer had been declined, her views at that time 
being otherwise directed. Now, however, this incident was 
remembered, and a resolution instantly formed to purchase; 
the book. As soon as tlie light declined, and her daily task 
at the needle had dra\vn to a close, she set out to execute 
this purpose. Arriving at the house of the bookseller, she 


ORMOND. 


31 

perceived that the doors and windows were closed. Night 
having not yet arrived, the conjecture easily occurred, that 
some one had died in the house. She had always dealt with 
this man for books and paper, and had always been treated 
with civility. Her heart readily admitted some sympathy 
with his distress, and to remove her doubts, she turned to a 
person who stood at the entrance of the next house, and who 
held a cloth steeped in vinegar to his nostrils. In reply to 
her question, the stranger said in a tone of tlie deepest con- 
sternation — Mr. Watson do you mean 9 He is dead; he 
died last night of the yellow fever. 

The name of this disease was not absolutely new to her 
ears. She had been apprised of its rapid and destructive 
progress in one quarter of the city, but, hitherto, it had exist- 
ed, with regard to her, chiefly in tlie form of rumor. She 
had not realized the nature or probable extent of tlie evil. 
She lived at no great distance from the seat of the malady, 
but her neighborhood had been hitherto exempt. So whol- 
ly unused was she to contemplate pestilence, except at a 
distance, that its actual existence in the bosom of this city 
was incredible. 

Contagious diseases, she well knew, periodically visited 
and laid waste the Greek and Egyptian cities. It constituted 
no small part of that mass of evil, political and physical, by 
which that portion of the world has been so long afflicted. 
That a pest equally malignant had assailed the metropolis of 
lier own country, a town famous for the salubrity of its airs 
and the perfection of its police, had something in it so wild 
and uncouth, that she could not reconcile herself to the pos- 
sibility of such an event. 

The death of Watson, however, filled her mind with aw- 
ful reflections. The purpose of her walk was forgotten 
amidst more momentous considerations. She bent her steps 
pensively homeward. She had now leisure to remark the 
symptoms of terror with which all ranks appeared to have 
been seized. The streets were as much frequented as ever, 
but there were few passengers whose countenances did not 
beti’ay alarm, and who did not employ the imaginary anti- 
dote to infection, vinegar. 

Having reached home, she quickly discovered in her fa- 
ther, an unusual solemnity and though tfiilness. He had no 


ORMOND. 


32 

power to conceal his emotions from Iiis daughter, when her 
efforts to discover them w’ere earnestly exerted. She learn- 
ed that, during her absence he had been visited by his next 
neighbor, a thrifty, sober and well meaning, but ignorant and 
meddling person, by name Wfiiston. This person, being 
equally inquisitive into other men’s affairs, and communicative 
of his own, was always an unwelcome visitant. On tliis occa- 
sion, he had come to disburthen on I\Jr. Dudley his fears of 
disease and deatli. His tale of the origin and progress of 
the epidemic, of the number and suddenness of recent deadis, 
was delivered witli endless prolixity. With this account he 
mingled prognostics of the future, counselled ]Mr. Dudley to 
fly from the scene of danger, and stated his own schemes 
and resolutions. After having thoroughly affrighted and 
wearied his companion, he took his leave. 

Constantia endeavored to remove the impression which 
had been thus needlessly made. She urged her doubts as 
to the truth of Whiston’s representations, and endeavored, 
in various ways, to extenuate the danger. 

Nay, my child, said her father, tliou needest not reason 
on the subject. I am not afraid. At least, on my own ac- 
count, I fear nothing. Wliat is life to me that I should dread 
to lose it 9 If on any account I should tremble, it is on 
thine, my angelic girl. Thou dost not deserve thus early 
to perish ; and yet if my love for thee were rational, per- 
haps I ought to wish it. An evil destiny will pursue thee to 
the close of thy life, be it never so long. 

I know that ignorance and foUy breed tlie phantoms by 
which tliemselves are perplexed and terrified, and that Whis- 
ton is a fool ; but here tlie trutli is too plain to be disguised. 
Tills malady is pestilential. Havoc and despair will ac- 
company its progress, and its progress will be rapid. The 
tragedies of ^larseilles and Messina will be reacted on this 
stage. 

For a time, wn in tliis quai'ter will be exempt, but it will 
surely reach us at last, and then, wiiither shall we fly For 
the rich, the whole world is a safe asylum, but for us, indi- 
gent and wretched, what fate is reserved but to stay and 
perish If the disease spare us, we must perish by ne- 
glect and famine. Alarm will be far and wide diffused. 
Fear will liinder those wiio supply the market, from entering 


ORMOND. 


33 

the city. Tlie price of food will become exorbitant. Our 
present source of subsistence, ignominious and scanty as it 
is, will be cut off. Traffic and labor of every kind will be 
at an end. We shall die, but not until we have witnessed 
and endured horrors that surpass thy powers of conception. 

I know full well the enormity of this evil. I have been 
at Messina, and talked with many who witnessed the state 
of that city in 1743. I will not freeze thy blood with the 
recital. Anticipation has a tendency to lessen or prevent 
some evils, but pestilence is not of that number. Sti’ange 
untowardness of destiny ! That thou and I should be cast 
upon a scene like this ! 

Mr. Dudley joined Avith uncommon powers of discern- 
ment, a species of perverseness not easily accounted for. 
He acted as if the lne\itable evils of her lot was not suffi- 
cient for the trial of his daughter’s patience. Instead of 
comforter and counsellor, he fostered impatience in himself, 
and endeavored, with the utmost diligence, to undermine 
her fortitude and disconcert her schemes. The task was 
assigned to her, not only of subduing her own fears, but of 
maintaining the contest with his disastrous eloquence. In 
most cases she had not failed of success. Hitherto their 
causes of anxiety, her own obseiwation had, in some degree, 
enabled her to estimate at their just value. The rueful pic- 
tures which his imagination w^as wont to portray, affected 
her for a moment ; but deliberate scrutiny commonly enabled 
her to detect and demonstrate their fallacy. Now, howeyer, 
the theme was new. Panic and foreboding found their way 
to her heart in defiance of her struggles. She had no ex- 
perience by wffiich to counteract tliis impulse. All that re- 
mained was to beguile her own and her fatlier’s cares by 
counterfeiting cheerfulness and introducing new topics. 

This panic, stifled for a time, renewed its sway when she 
retired to her chamber. Never did futurity wear, to her 
fancy, so dark a hue. Never did her condition appear to 
her in a light so dreary and forlorn. To fly from the dan- 
ger w’as impossible. How should accommodation at a dis- 
tance be procured The means of subsistence were in- 
dissolubly connected with her present residence, but the 
progress of this disease would cut off these means, and 


34 


ORMOND. 


leave her to be beset not only with pestilence but famine. 
What provision could she make against an evil like tliis 


CHAPTER IV. 

The terms on which she had been admitted into this house,' 
included the advance of one quarter’s rent and the monthly 
payment of subsequent dues. Tlie requisite sum had been 
with difficulty collected, the landlord had t^\^ce called to 
remind her of her stipulation, and tliis day had been fixed 
for the discharge of this debt. He had omitted, contrary 
to her expectations and her wishes, to come. It was proba- 
ble, however, that they should meet on the ensuing day. If 
he should fail in this respect, it appeared to be her duty to 
carry the money to his house, and this it had been her resolu- 
tion to perform. 

Now, however, new views were suggested to her thoughts. 
By the payment of this debt she should leave herself nearly 
destitute. The flight and terror of the citizens would de- 
prive her of employment. Want of food was an immediate 
and inevitable evil wliich the payment of this sum wnuld 
produce. Was it just to incur this e\dl 9 To retain the 
means of luxurious gratification would be wrong, but to be- 
reave herself and her fatlier of bare subsistence was surely 
no dictate of duty. 

It is true the penalty of nonpayment was always in the 
landlord’s hands. He was empowered by the law to sell their 
moveables and expel them from his house. It was now no 
time for a penalty like this to be incurred. But from this 
ti’eatment it was reasonable to hope that his lenity would 
save them. Was it not right to wait till the alternative of 
expulsion or payment was imposed 9 Meanwhile, however, 
she was subjected to the torments of suspense and to the 
guilt of a broken promise. Tliese consequences were to 
be eluded only in one way. By visiting her landlord and 
stating her true condition, it was possible that his compassion 
would remit claims which were, in themselves, unreasonable 
and uncommon. The tender of the money accompanied 


ORMOND. 


35 


by representations sufficiently earnest and pathetic, might 
possibly be declined. 

These reflections were, next morning, submitted to her 
father. Her decision in this case was of less importance in 
his eyes, than in those of his daughter. Should the money 
be retained, it was, in his opinion, a pittance too small to 
afford them effectual support. Supposing provisions to be 
liad at any price, which was, itself improbable, that price 
would be exorbitant. The general confusion would proba- 
bly last for months, and thirty dollars would be devoured in a 
few weeks even in a time of safety. To give or to keep 
was indifferent for anotlier reason. It was absurd for those 
to consult about means of subsistence for the next month, 
when it was fixed that they should die tomorrow. — The 
true proceeding was obvious. Tlie landlord’s character was 
well known to him by means of the plaints and invectives ot 
their neighbors, most of whom were tenants of the same 
man. If the money were offered, his avarice would receive 
it, in spite of all the pleas that she should urge. If it were 
detained \^dthout lieve, an officer of justice would quickly 
be despatched to claim it. 

Tliis statement was sufficient to take away from Con- 
stantia the hope that she had fostered. What then, said 
she, after a pause, is my father’s advice 9 Shall I go forth- 
with and deliver the money 

No, said he, stay till he sends for it. Have you forgotten 
tliaT Mathews resides in the very midst of this disease. 
There is no need to thrust yourself witlnn its fangs. They 
will reach us time enough. It is likely his messenger will 
be an agent of the law. No matter. The debt will be 
merely increased by a few charges. In a state like ours, 
the miserable remnant is not wwth caring for. 

This reasoning, did not impart conviction to the lady. 
The danger, flowing from a tainted atmosphere was not 
small, but to incur that danger was wiser than to exasperate 
tlieir landlord, to augment the debt and to encounter the 
disgrace, accruing from a constable’s visits. The conversa- 
tion was dropped, and, presently after, she set out on a visit 
to Mathews. 

She fully estimated the importance to her happiness of 
the sum which she was going to pay. The general panic 


ORMOND. 


36 

had already, iii some degree, produced the effect she chiedy 
dreaded ; the failure of employment for her needle. Her 
father had, with his usual diligence at self-torment, supplied 
her with sufficient proofs of the covetous and obdurate tem- 
per of her creditor. Insupportable, however, as tlie evil of 
payment was, it was better to incur it spontaneously, than 
by means of legal process. The desperateness of this pro- 
ceeding therefore, did not prevent her from adopting it, but 
it filled her heart with the bitterest sensations. Absorbed 
as she past along, by these, she was nearly insensible to the 
vacancy which now prevailed in a quarter wliich formerly 
resounded with the din of voices and carriages. 

As she approached the house to wliich she was going, her 
reluctance to proceed increased. Frequently she paused 
to recollect tlie motives that had prescribed this task, and to 
reinforce her purposes. At length she arrived at the house. 
Now, for the first time, her attention was excited by the 
silence and desolation that surrounded her. This evidence 
of fear and of danger struck upon her heart. All appeared 
to have fled from tlie presence of this unseen and terrible 
foe. Tlie temerity of adventuring thus into the jaws of the 
pest, now appeared to her in glaring colors. 

Appearances suggested a reflection which had not pre- 
viously occurred, and which tended to console her. Was it 
not probable that Mathews had likewise flown His habits 
were calculated to endear to him his life ; he would scarcely 
be among the last to shun perils like these ; the omission 
of his promised visit on the preceding day, might be owing 
to his absence from the city, and thus, without subjection to 
any painful alternative, she might be suffered to retain tlie 
money. 

To give certainty to tliis hope, she cast her eye towards 
the house opposite to which she now stood. Her heart 
drooped on perceiving proofs that the dwelling w'as still inhab- 
ited. The door was open and the windows in the second 
and tliird story were raised. Near the entrance, in the street, 
stood a cart. The horse attached to it, in his form and 
furniture and attitude, was an emblem of torpor and decay. 
His gaunt sides, motionless limbs, his gummy and dead 
eyes, and his head hanging to the ground, were in unison 
with the craziness of the vehicle to which he belonged, and 


ORMOND. 


37 


tiie paltry and bedusted harness which covered him. No 
attendant nor any human face was visible. The stillness, 
tliough at an hour customarily busy, was uninterrupted ex- 
cept by the sound of wheels moving at an almost indistin- 
guishable distance. 

She paused for a moment to contemplate this unwonted 
spectacle. Her trepidations were mingled with emotions 
not unakin to sublimity, but the consciousness of danger 
speedily prevailed, and she hastened to acquit herself of her 
engagement. She approached the door for this purpose, 
but before she could draw the bell her motions were arrest- 
ed by sounds from witliin. The staircase was opposite the 
door. Two persons were now discovered descending the 
stair. Tliey lifted between them a heavy mass, which was 
presently discerned to be a coffin. Shocked by this dis- 
covery and trembling she withdrew from the enti'ance. 

At this moment a door on the opposite side of the street 
opened and a female came out. Constantia approached 
her involuntarily and her appearance not being unattractive, 
adventured, more by gestures than by words, to inquire 
whose obsequies were thus unceremoniously conducted. 
The woman informed her that the dead was Mathews, who, 
two days before, was walking about, indifferent to, and 
braving danger. She cut short the narrative which her 
companion seemed willing to prolong, and to embellish with 
all its circumstances, and hastened home with her utmost 
expedition. 

The mind of Constantia was a stranger to pusillanimity. 
Death, as the common lot of all, was regarded by her with- 
out perturbation. The value of life, though not annihilated, 
was certainly diminished by adversity. With whatever 
solemnity contemplated, it excited on her own account, no 
aversion or inquietude. For her father’s sake only, death 
was an evil to be ardently deprecated. The nature of the 
prevalent disease, the limits and modes of its influence, the 
risk that is incurred by approaching the sick or the dead, or 
by breathing the surrounding element, were subjects foreign 
to her education. She judged like the mass of mankind 
from the most obvious appearances, and was subject like 
them to impulses, which disdained tlie control of her reason. 

4 


38 


ORMOND. 


Witli all her complacency for deatli and speculative resigna- 
tion to the fate that governs the world, disquiet and alarm 
pervaded her bosom on tliis occasion. 

The deplorable state to which her father would be reduc- 
ed by her death, was seen and lamented, but her tremulous 
sensations flowed not from tliis source. They were, in 
some sort, inexplicable and mechanical. In spite of recol- 
lection and reflection, they bewildered and harassed her, 
and subsided only of their own accord. 

The death of Mathews was productive of one desirable 
consequence. Till the present tumult were passed, and his 
representatives had leisure to inspect his affairs, his debt- 
ors would probably remain unmolested. He, likewise, who 
should succeed to the inlieritance, might possess very' 
different qualities, and be as much distinguished for equity 
as Mathews had been for extortion. Tliese reflections 
lightened her footsteps as she hied homeward. The know- 
ledge she had gained, she hoped would counterpoise, in her 
father’s apprehension, tlie perils, wliich accompanied the 
acquisition of it. 

She had scarcely passed her own threshold, when she 
was followed by Whiston. Tliis man pursued the occupa- 
tion of a cooper. He performed journeywork in a shop, 
wliich, unfortunately for him, was situated near the water, 
and at a small distance from the scene of original infection* 
This day his employer had dismissed his workmen, and 
Whiston was at liberty to retire from the city ; a scheme, 
which had been tlie theme of deliberation and discussion 
during the preceding fortnight. 

Hitherto his apprehensions seemed to have molested 
others more than himself. The rumors and conjectures in- 
dustriously collected during the day, were, in the evening, 
copiously detailed to his neighbors, and his oimi mmd 
appeared to he disburtheiied of its cares, in proportion as 
he filled others with terror and inquietude. The predictions 
of physicians, the measures of precaution prescribed by the 
government, tlie progress of the malady, and the liistory of 
the victims who were hourly destroyed by it, were commu- 
nicated with tormenting prolixity and terrifying minuteness. 

On these accounts as well as on others, no one’s visits 
were more unwelcome than his. As his deportment was 


ORMOND. 


39 


sober and honest, and his intentions harmless, he was always 
treated, by Constantia, with politeness, though his entrance 
always produced a momentary depression of her spirits. 
On this evening she was less fitted than ever to repel those 
anxieties which his conversation was qualified to produce. 
His entrance, therefore, was observed with sincere regret. 

Contrary, however, to her expectation, Whiston brought 
with him new manners and a new expression of countenance. 
He was silent, abstracted, his eye was full of inquietude, 
and wandered with perpetual restlessness. On these tokens 
being remarked, he expressed, in faultering accents his be- 
lief, that he had contracted this disease, and that now it was 
too late for him to leave the city. 

]VIr. Dudley’s education was somewhat medical. He 
was so far interested in his guest as to inquire into his sensa- 
tions. They were such as were commonly the preludes to 
fever. Mr. Dudley, while he endeavored by cheerful tones, 
to banish his dejection, exhorted him to go home, and to 
take some hot and wholesome draught, in consequence of 
which, he might rise tomorrow with his usual health. This 
advice was gratefully received, and Whiston put a period to 
his visit much sooner than was customaiy. 

Mr. Dudley entertained no doubts that Whiston was seized 
with the reigning disease, and extinguished the faint hope 
which his daughter had cherished, that their district would 
escape. Whiston’s habitation was nearly opposite their 
own, but as they made no use of their front room, they had 
seldom an opportunity of observing the transactions of their 
neighbors. This distance and seclusion were congenial 
with her feelings, and she derived pleasure from her father’s 
confession, that they contributed to personal security. 

Constantia was accustomed to rise with the dawn, and 
traverse, for an hour, the State house Mall. As she took 
her walk the next morning, she pondered with astonishment 
on the present situation of the city. The air was bright 
and pure, and apparently salubrious. Security and silence 
seemed to hover over the scene. She was only reminded 
of the true state of things by the occasional appearance of 
carriages loaded with household utensils tending towards the 
country, and by tlie odour of vinegar by which every passen- 
ger was accompanied. The public walk was cool and fra- 


ORMOND. 


40 

grant as formerly, skirted by verdure as bright, and shaded by 
foliage as luxuriant, but it was no longer frequented by live- 
ly steps and cheerful countenances. Its solitude was unin- 
terrupted by any but herself. 

This day passed without furnishing any occasion to leave 
the house. She was less sedulously employed than usual, as 
the clotlies, on which she was engaged, belonged to a family 
who had precipitately left the city. She had leisure there- 
fore to ruminate. She could not but feel some concern in 
the fate of Whiston. He was a young man who subsisted 
on the Iruits of liis labor, and divided his gains with an only 
sister who lived witli him, and who performed every house- 
hold office. 

This girl was humble and innocent, and of a temper 
affectionate and mild. Casual intercourse only had taken 
place between her and Constantia. They were too dissimi- 
lar for any pleasure to arise from communication, but the 
latter was sufficiently disposed to extend to her harmless 
neighbor, the sympathy and succor which she needed. 
Whiston had come from a distant part of the country, and 
liis sister was the only person in the city with whom he was 
connected by ties of kindred. In case of his sickness, there- 
fore, their condition would be helpless and deplorable. 

Evening arrived, and Whiston failed to pay his customary 
visit. She mentioned this omission to her father, and ex- 
pressed her apprehension as to the cause of it. He did not 
discountenance the inference which she drew from this cir- 
cumstance, and assented to the justice of the picture which 
she drew of the calamitous state to which Whiston and his 
sister would be reduced by the indisposition of either. She 
then ventured to suggest ffie propriety of visiting the house, 
and of thus ascertaining the truth. 

To this proposal ^Ir. Dudley urged the most vehement 
objections. What purpose could be served by entering their 
dweUing What benefit would flow but the gratification of 
a dangerous curiosity Constantia was disabled from fur- 
nishing pecuniary aid. She could not act the part of phy- 
sician or nurse. Her father stood in need of a thousand 
personal services, and the drudgery of cleansing and cook- 
ing, already exceeded the boimds of her strength. The 
hazard of contracting the disease by conversing with the 


ORMOND. 


41 

sick, was imminent. What services was she able to render 
equivalent to the consequences of her own sickness and 
death ^ 

These representations had temporary influence. They 
recalled her for a moment, from her purpose, but this pur- 
pose was speedily re-embraced. She reflected that the 
evil to herself, formidable as it was, w’^as barely problemat- 
ical. That converse with the sick would impart ttiis disease, 
was by no means certain. Whiston might at least be visited. 
Perhaps she should find him well. If sick, his disease might 
be unepidemical, or curable by seasonable assistance. He 
might stand in need of a physician, and she was more able 
than his sister, to summon this aid. 

Her father listened calmly to her reasonings. After a 
pause, he gave his consent. In doing this he was influenc- 
ed not by the conviction that his daughter’s safety would be 
exposed to no hazard, but from a belief that though she 
might shun infection for the present, it would inevitably seize 
her during some period of the progress of this pest. 


CHAPTER V. 

It was now dusk and she hastened to perform tliis duty. 
Whiston’s dwelling was wooden and of small dimensions. 
She lifted the latch softly and entered. Tlie lower room 
was unoccupied. She advanced to the foot of a narrow 
staircase, and knocked and listened, but no answer was re- 
turned to the summons. Hence there was reason to infer 
that no one was within, but this, from other considerations, 
was extremely improbable. The ti'uth could be ascertained 
only by ascending the stair. Some feminine scruples were 
to be subdued before tliis proceeding could be adopted. 

After some hesitation, she determined to ascend. Tlie 
staircase was terminated by a door at which she again knock- 
ed for admission, but in vain. She listened, and presently 
heard the motion as of some one in bed. This was succeed- 
ed by tokens of vehement exertions to vomit. These signs 


42 


ORMOND. 


convincing her that the house was not without a tenant, she 
could not hesitate to enter the room. 

Lying in a tattered bed, she now discovered Mary Whis- 
ton. Her face was flushed and swelled, her eyes closed, 
and some power appeared to have laid a leaden hand upon 
her faculties. The floor was moistened and stained by the 
efllision from her stomach. Constantia touched her hand, 
and endeavored to rouse her. It was with difficulty that 
her attention was excited. Her languid eyes were scarcely 
opened before tliey again closed and she sunk into forgetful- 
ness. 

Repeated efforts, however, at length recalled her to herself, 
and extorted from her some account of her condition. On 
the day before, at noon, her stomach became diseased, her 
head dizzy, and her limbs unable to support her. Her 
brother was absent, and her drowsiness, interrupted only by 
paroxysms of vomiting, continued till his return late in the 
evening. He had then shewn himself, for a few minutes, 
at her bedside, had made some inquiries and precipitately 
retired, since when he had not reappeared. 

It was natural to imagine that Whiston had gone to pro- 
cure medical assistance. That he had not returned, during 
a day and a half, was matter of surprise. His own indisposi- 
tion was recollected, and his absence could only be account- 
ed for by supposing that sickness had disabled him from 
regaining his own house. What was his real destiny, it was 
impossible to conjecture. It was not till some months after 
this period that satisfactory intelligence was gained upon this 
head. 

It appeared that Whiston had allowed his terrors to over- 
power the sense of what was due to his sister and to hu- 
manity. On discovering the condition of the unhappy girl, 
he left the- house, and, instead of seeking a physician, he 
turned his steps towards the country. After travelling some 
hours, being exhausted by want of food, by fatigue, and by 
mental as well as bodily anguish, he laid himself down under 
the shelter of a hayrick, in a vacant field. Here he was 
discovered in tlie morning by the inhabitants of a neighbor- 
ing farm house. These people had too much regard for 
their owm safety to accommodate him under their roof, or 
even to approach witliin fifty paces of his person. 


ORMOND. 


48 


A passenger, whose attention and compassion had been 
excited by this incident, was endowed with more courage. 
He lifted the stranger in his arms, and carried him from this 
unwholesome spot to a bai*n. This was the only service 
which tile passenger was able to perform. Whiston, desert- 
ed by every human creature, burning with fever, tormented 
into madness by thirst, spent tliree miserable days in agony. 
When dead, no one would cover his body with earth, but he 
was suffered to decay by piecemeal. 

The dwelling, being at no great distance from the bam, 
could not be wholly screened from the malignant vapor 
which a corpse, tlius neglected, could not fail to produce. 
The inhabitants were preparing on this account, to change 
their abode, but, on the eve of their departure, the master of 
the family became sick. He was, in a short time, followed 
to the grave by his mother, his wife and four children. 

They probably imbibed their disease from the tainted at- 
mosphere around them. The life of Wliiston and their own 
lives, might have been saved by affording the wanderer an 
asylum and suitable treatment, or at least, their own deaths 
might have been avoided by interring his remains. 

Meanwhile Constantia was occupied with reflecting on the 
scene before her. Not only a physician but a nurse was 
wanting. The last province it was more easy for her to sup- 
ply than the former. She was acquainted with the abode of 
but one physician. He lived at no small distance from this 
spot. To him she immediately hastened, but he was absent, 
and his numerous engagements left it wholly uncertain when 
he would return and whether he would consent to increase 
the number of his patients. Direction was obtained to the 
residence of another, who was happily disengaged, and who 
promised to attend immediately. Satisfied with this assur- 
ance, she neglected to request directions, by which she 
might regulate herself on his failing to come. 

During her return her thoughts were painfully employed 
in considering the mode proper for her to pursue, in her pre- 
sent perplexing situation. She was for the most part unac- 
quainted with the character of those who composed her neigh- 
borhood. That any would he willing to undertake the ten- 
dance of this girl was by no means probable. As wives and 
mothers, it would perhaps be unjust to require or permit it. 


44 


ORMOND. 


As to herself there were labors and duties of her own suffi- 
cient to engross her faculties, yet, by whatever foreign cares 
or tasks she was oppressed, she felt that, to desert this being, 
was impossible. 

In the absence of her friend, Mary’s state exhibited no 
change. Constantia, on regaining the house, lighted the 
remnant of a candle, and resumed her place by the bedside 
of the sick gii'l. She impatiently waited for the arrival of the 
physician, but hour succeeded hour and he came not. All 
hope of his coming being extinguished, she bethought her- 
self that her father might be able to inform her of the best 
manner of proceeding. It was likewise her duty to relieve 
him from the suspense in which her absence would unavoida- 
bly plunge him. 

On entering her own apartment she found a stranger in 
company with Mr. Dudley. The latter perceiving that she 
had returned, speedily acquainted her with the views of their 
guest. His name was M’Crea ; he was the nephew of their 
landlord and was now become, by reversion, the proprietor 
of the house which they occupied. Mathews had been bu- 
ried the preceding day, and M’Crea, being well acquainted 
with the engagements which subsisted between the deceased 
and Mr. Dudley, had come, thus unseasonably, to demand 
the rent. He was not unconscious of the inhumanity and 
sordidness of this proceeding, and therefore, endeavored to 
disguise it by the usual pretences. All his funds were ex- 
hausted. He came not onl)^ in his own name, but in that of 
Mrs. Mathews his aunt, who was destitute of money to pro- 
cure daily and indispensable provision, and who was striving 
to collect a sufficient sum to enable her and the remains of 
her family, to fly from a spot where theii* lives were in per- 
petual danger. 

These excuses were abundantly fallacious, but Mr. Dud- 
ley was too proud to solicit the forbearance of a man like 
this. He recollected tliat the engagement on his part was 
voluntary and explicit, and he disdained to urge his present 
exigencies as reasons for retracting it. He expressed the 
utmost readiness to comply with tlie demand, and merely 
desired him to wait till Miss Dudley returned. From the 
inquietudes with which the unusual duration of her absence 
had filled him, he was now relieved by her entrance. 


ORMOND. 


45 


Witli an indignant and desponding heart, she complied 
with her father’s directions, and the money being reluctantly 
delivered, M’Crea took a hasty leave. She was too deep- 
ly interested in the fate of Mary Wliiston, to allow her 
thoughts to be diverted for the present into a new channel. 
She described the desolate condition of the girl to her fath- 
er, and besought him to think of something suitable to her 
relief. 

Mr. Dudley’s humanity would not suffer him to disap- 
prove of his daughter’s proceeding. He imagined that the 
symptoms of the patient portended a fatal issue. There 
were certain complicated remedies which might possibly be 
beneficial, but these were too costly, and the application 
would demand more strength than his daughter could be- 
stow. He was unwilling, however, to leave any thing with- 
in his power, untried. Pharmacy had been his trade, and 
he had reserved, for domestic use, some of the most power- 
ful evacuants. Constantia was supplied with some of these, 
and he consented that she should spend the night with her 
patient, and watch their operation. 

The unhappy Mary received whatever was offered, but 
her stomach refused to retain it. The night was passed by 
Constantia without closing her eyes. As soon as the day 
dawned, she prepared once more to summon the physician, 
who had failed to comply with his promise. She had scarce- 
ly left the house, however, before she met him. He plead- 
ed his numerous engagements in excuse for his last night’s 
negligence, and desired her to make haste to conduct him to 
the patient. 

Having scrutinized her symptoms, he expressed his hope- 
lessness of her recovery. Being informed of the mode in 
which she had been treated, he declared his approbation of 
it, but intimated, that these being unsuccessful, all that re- 
mained was to furnish her ^vith any liquid she might choose 
to demand, and wait patiently for the event. During this 
interview, the physician surveyed the person and dress of 
Constantia with an inquisitive eye. His countenance be- 
trayed mai’ks of curiosity and compassion, and had he made 
any approaches to confidence and friendliness, Constantia 
would not have repelled them. His air was benevolent and 
candid, and she estimated highly the usefulness of a counsel- 


46 


ORMOND. 


aiidlor friend in her present circumstances. Some motive, 
however, hindered him from tendering his service, and, in 
a few moments, he withdrew. 

Mar}^’s condition hourly grew worse. A corroded and 
gangrenous stomach was quickly testified by the dark hue 
and poisonous malignity of the matter w^hich was frequently 
ejected from it. Her stupor gave place to some degree of 
peevishness and restlessness. She drank the water that was 
held to her lips with unspeakable avidity, and derived from 
this source a momentary alleviation of her pangs. Fortu- 
nately for her attendant, her agonies were not of long duration. 
Constantia was absent from her bedside as rarely, and for - 
periods as short as possible. On the succeeding night, tlfe 
sufferings of the patient terminated in death. / 

Tliis event took place at two o’clock in the moming^■ 
An hour whose customary stillness was, if possible, increas- ^ 
ed tenfold by the desolation of the city. The poverty of 
Mary and of her nurse had deprived tlie former of the ben- 
efits resulting from the change of bed and clothes. Every 
thing about her was in a condition noisome and detestable. 
Her yellowish and haggard visage, conspicuous by a feeble 
light, an atmosphere freighted with malignant vapors, and 
reminding Constantia at every instant, of the perils which 
encompassed her, the consciousness of solitude and sensa- 
tions of deadly sickness in her owm frame, were sufficient to 
intimidate a soul of firmer texture than hers. 

She was sinking fast into helplessness, when a new train 
of reflections showed her the necessity of perseverance. All 
that remained w^as to consign the corpse to the grave. She 
knew that vehicles for this end were provided at the public 
expense, that notice being given of the occasion there w^as for 
their attendance, a receptacle and carriage for the dead 
would be instantly provided. Application, at this hour, she 
imagined would be unseasonable. It must be deferred tifl 
the morning which w^as yet at some distance. 

Meanwhile to remain at her present post, was equally 
useless and dangerous. She endeavored to stifle the con- 
viction, tliat some mortal sickness had seized upon her owm 
frame. Her anxieties of head and stomach she was willing 
to impute to extraordinary fatigue and watchfubess; and 
hoped that they would be dissipated by an hour’s immolest^ 


ORMOND. 


47 

ed repose. She formed the resolution of seeking her own 
chamber. 

At this moment, however, the universal silence underwent 
a slight interruption. The sound was familiar to her ears. 
It was a signal frequently repeated at the midnight hour dur- 
ing tliis season of calamity. It was the slow movement of 
a hearse, apparently passing along the street, in which the 
aUey, where Mr. Dudley resided, terminated. At first, this 
sound had no other effect than to aggravate the dreariness of 
all around her. Presently it occurred to her that this vehi- 
cle might be disengaged. She conceived herself bound to 
see the last offices performed for the deceased Mary. The 
sooner so irksome a duty was discharged the better. Every 
hour might augment her incapacity for exertion. Should 
she be unable when ffie morning arrived, to go as far as the 
city hall, and give the necessary information, the most shock- 
ing consequences would ensue. Whiston’s house and her 
own were opposite each other, and not connected with any 
on the same side. A narrow space divided them, and her 
own chamber was wiffiin tlie sphere of the contagion which 
would flow, in consequence of such neglect, from that of her 
neighbor. 

Influenced by these considerations she passed into the 
street, and gained the corner of the alley, just as the car- 
riage, whose movements she had heard, arrived at the same 
spot. It was accompanied by two men, negroes, who listen- 
ed to her tale witli respect. Having already a burthen of 
this kind, they could not immediately comply with this re- 
quest. They promised that, having disposed of their pre- 
sent charge, they would return forthwith and be ready to 
execute her orders. 

Happily one of these persons was known to her. At other 
seasons his occupation was that of looodcarter^ and as such 
he had performed some services for Mr. Dudley. His tem- 
per was gentle and obliging. The character of Constantia 
had been viewed by him with reverence, and his kindness 
had relieved her from many painful offices. His old occu- 
pation being laid aside for a time, he had betaken himself, 
like many others of his color and rank, to the conveyance 
and burial of the dead. 

At Constantia’s request, he accompanied her to Whiston’s 


48 


ORMOND. 


house, and promised to bring with him such assistance, as 
would render her farther exertions and attendance unneces- 
sary. Glad to be absolved from any new task, she now re- 
tired to her own chamber. In spite of her distempered 
frame, she presently sunk into sweet sleep. She awoke not 
till the day had made considerable progress, and found her- 
self invigorated and refreshed. On re-entering Whiston’s 
house, she discovered that her humble friend had faithfully 
performed his promise, the dead body having disappeared. 
She deemed it unsafe, as well as unnecessary, to examine 
the clotlies and other property remaining, but leaving every 
thing in the condition in which it had been found, she fasten- 
ed the windows and doors, and tliencefortli kept as distant 
from the house as possible. 


CHAPTER VI. 

CoNSTANTiA had now leisure to ruminate upon her own 
condition. Every day added to the devastation and confu- 
sion of the city. The most populous streets were deserted 
and silent. The greater number of inhabitants had fled, and 
those who remained were occupied with no cares but those 
which related to their own safety. The labors of the artisan 
and the speculations of the merchant were suspended. All 
shops, but tliose of the apothecaries were shut. No carriage 
but the hearse was seen, and this was employed, night and 
day, in the removal of the dead. The customary sources of 
subsistence were cut off*. Those, whose fortunes enabled 
them to leave the city, but who had deferred till now their 
retreat, were denied an asylum by th^terror which pervaded 
the adjacent country, and by the cruel prohibitions w’hich the 
neighboring towns and cities thought it necessaiy to adopt. 
Those who lived by the fruits of their daily labor were sub- 
jected, in this total inactivity, to the alternative of starving, or 
of subsisting upon public charity. 

The meditations of Constantia, suggested no alternative 
but this. The exactions of M’Crea had reduced her whole 
fortune to five dollars. This would rapidly decay, and her 
utmost ingenuity could discover no means of procuring a 


ORMOND. 


49 


new supply. All the habits of their life had combined to 
fill both her father and herself with aversion to the accept- 
ance of charity. Yet this avenue, opprobrious and disgust- 
ful as it was, afforded the only means of escaping from the 
worst extremes of famine. 

In this state of mind it was obvious to consider in what 
way the sum remaining might be most usefully expended. 
Every species of provision was not equally nutritious or 
equally cheap. Her mind, active in die pursuit of know- 
ledge and fertile of resources, had lately been engaged, in 
discussing with her father, the best means of retaining health, 
in a time of pestilence. On occasions, when the malignity 
of contagious diseases has been most signal, some individuals 
have escaped. For their safety, they were doubdess indebt- 
ed to some peculiarities in their constitution or habits. 
Their diet, their dress, their kind and degree of exercise, 
must somewhat have contributed to their exemption from 
the common destiny. These, perhaps, could be ascertained, 
and when known it was surely proper to conform to them. 

In discussing these ideas, Mr. Dudley introduced the 
mention of a Benedictine of Messina, who, during the 
prevalence of the plague in that city, was incessantly engag- 
ed in administering assistance to those who needed. Not- 
■withstanding his perpetual hazards, he retained perfect health, 
and was living tliirty years after this event. During this 
period, he fostered a tranquil, fearless, and benevolent spii’it, 
and restricted his diet to water and pollenta. Spices, and 
meats, and liquors, and all complexities of cookery were 
utterly discarded. 

These facts now occurred to Constantia’s reflections with 
new vividness, and led to interesting consequences. Pollenta 
and hasty-pudding or samp, are preparations of the same 
substance ; a substance which she needed not the experience 
of others to convince her was no less gratefiil than nutiitive. 
Indian meal was procurable at ninety cents per bushel. By 
recollecting former experiments, she knew that this quantity, 
with no accompaniment but salt, would supply wholesome 
and plentiful food for four months to one person.* The in- 

* See this useful fact explained and demonstrated in Count Rumford’s 
Essays. 


5 


50 


ORMOND. 


ference was palpable. Three persons vrere now to be suppli- 
ed with food, and this supply could he furnished, during four 
months, at tlie trivial expense of three dollars. This ex- 
pedient was at once so uncommon and so desirable, as to be 
regarded with temporar}^ disbelief." She was inclined to 
suspect some latent error in her calculation. That a sum 
thus applied, should suffice for the subsistence of a year, 
which, in ordinaiy cases, is expended in a few days, was 
scarcely credible. The more closely, how’ever, the subject 
w^as examined, the more incontestably did this inference 
flow. The mode of preparation was simple and easy, and 
productive of the fewest toils and inconveniences. The at- 
tention of her Lucy was sufficient to this end, and the 
drudgery of marketing was wholly precluded. 

She easily obtained the concurrence of her father and the 
scheme w^as found as practicable and beneficial as her fondest 
expectations had predicted. InfiQlible security was thus 
provided against hunger. Tliis w-as the only care that w^as 
urgent and immediate. While they had food and w^ere ex- 
empt from disease, they could live, and were not without 
their portion of comfort. Her hands were unemployed, 
but her mind was kept in continual activity. To seclude 
herself as much as possible fi’om otliers, was the best means 
of avoiding infection. Spectacles of misery w'hich she was 
unable to relieve, would merely tend to harass her with 
useless disquietudes and make her frame more accessible to 
disease. Her fatlier’s instructions w^ere sufficient to give 
her a competent acquaintance with the Italian and French 
languages. His dreary hours were beguiled by this employ- 
ment, and her mind w^as furnished with a species of know- 
ledge, which she hoped, in future, to make subservient to a 
more respectable and plentiful subsistence tlian she had 
hidierto enjoyed. 

Meanwhile tlie season advanced, and the havoc which 
this fatal malady produced, increased ^vith portentous ra- 
pidity. In alleys and narrow^ streets, in wliich the houses 
were smaller, the inliabitants more numerous and indigent, 
and the air pent up witliin unwholesome limits, it raged \vith 
greatest \iolence. Few^ of Constantia’s neighbors possessed 
the means of remoHng from tlie danger. Tlie inhabitants 
of this alley consisted of tiiree hundred persons. Of these 


ORMOND. 


51 


eight or ten experienced no interruption of their health. 
Of the rest two hundred were destroyed in the course of 
three weeks. Among so many victims, it may be supposed 
that tills disease assumed every terrific and agonizing shape. 

It was impossible for Constantia to shut out every token 
of a calamity thus enormous and thus near. Night was the 
season usually selected for the removal of die dead. The 
sound of wheels thus employed was incessant. This, and 
the images with which it was sure to be accompanied, 
bereaved her of repose. Tlie shrieks and laments of 
survivors, who could not be prevented from attending the 
remains of a husband or child to the place of interment, 
frequently struck her senses. Sometimes urged by a furious 
delirium, the sick would break from their attendants, rush 
into the streets, and expire on the pavement, amidst frantic 
outcries and gestures. By these she was often roused from 
imperfect sleep, and called to reflect upon the fate which 
impended over her father and herself. 

To preserve health in an atmosphere thus infected, and to 
ward off terror and dismay in a scene of horrors thus hourly 
accumulating, was impossible. Constantia found it vain to 
contend against the inroads of sadness. Amidst so dread- 
ful a mortality, it was irrational to cherish the hope that she 
or her father would escape. Her sensations, in no long 
time, seemed to justify her apprehensions. Her appetite 
forsook her, her strength failed, the thirst and lassitude of 
fever invaded her, and the grave seemed to open for her 
reception. 

Lucy was assailed by the same symptoms at die same 
time. Household offices were unavoidably neglected. Mr. 
Dudley retained his health, but he was able only to prepare 
his scanty food, and supply the cravings of his child, with 
water from the well. His imagination marked him out for 
die next victim. He could not be blind to the consequences 
of his own indisposition, at a period so critical. Disabled 
from contributing to each other’s assistance, destitute of 
medicine and food, and even of water to quench their tor- 
menting thirst, unvisited, unknown, and perishing in frightful 
solitude ! — These images had a tendency to prostrate the 
mind, and generate or ripen the seeds of this fatal malady, 


52 


ORMOND. 


which, no doubt, at this period of its progress, every one 
had imbibed. 

Conti'ary to all his fears, he awoke each morning free 
from pain, though not without an increase of debility. Ab- 
stinence from food, and the liberal use of cold water seemed 
to have a medicinal operation on the sick. Their pulse 
gradually resumed its healthful tenor, their strength and their 
appetite slowly returned, and m ten days they were able to 
congratulate each other on their restoration. 

I will not recount that series of disastrous thoughts which 
occupied the mind of Constantia during this period. Her 
lingering and sleepless hours were regarded by her as pre- 
ludes to death. Though at so immature an age, she had 
gained large experience of the evils which are allotted to 
man. Death, which, in her prosperous state, was peculiarly 
abhorrent to her feelings, was now disrobed of terror. As 
an entrance into scenes of lightsome and imperishable being, 
it was the goal of all her wishes. As a passage to oblivion 
it was still desirable, since forgetfulness was better than the 
life which she had hidierto led, and which, should her ex-^ 
istence be prolonged, it was likely that she could continue to 
lead. 

These gloomy meditations were derived from the langors 
of her frame. When these disappeared, her cheerfulness 
and fortitude revived, She regarded with astonishment and 
delight, the continuance of her father’s health and her own 
restoration. That trial seemed to have been safely under- 
gone, to which the life of every one was subject. The air 
which till now had been arid and sultry, was changed into 
cool and moist. The pestilence had reached its utmost 
height, and now symptoms of remission and decline began 
to appear. Its declension was more rapid than its progress, 
and every day added vigor to hope. 

When her strength was somewhat retrieved, Constantia 
called to mind a good woman who lived in her former 
neighborhood, and from whom she had received many proofs 
of artless affection. This woman’s name was Sarah Baxter. 
She lived witliin a small distance of Constantia’s former 
dwelling. The trade of her husband was that of porter, 
and she pursued, in addition to the care of a numerous 
family, the business of a laundress. The superior know*- 


ORMOND. 


53 


ledge and address of Constantia, had enabled her to be 
serviceable to tliis woman in certain painful and perplexing 
circumstances. 

This service was repaid with the utmost gratitude. Sarah 
regarded her benefactress with a species of devotion. She 
could not endure to behold one, whom every accent and 
gesture proved to have once enjoyed affluence and dignity, 
performing any servile office. In spite of her own multiplied 
engagements, she compelled Constantia to accept her assist- 
ance on many occasions, and could scarcely be prevailed 
upon to receive any compensation for her labor. Washing 
clothes was her trade, and from this task she insisted on 
relieving her lovely patroness. 

Constantia’s change of dwelling produced much regret in 
the kind Sarah. She did not allow it to make any change 
in their previous arrangements, but punctually visited the 
Dudleys once a week, and carried home with her whatever 
stood in need of ablution. When the prevalence of disease 
disabled Constantia from paying her tlie usual wages, she 
would, by no means, consent to be absolved from this task. 
Her earnestness on this head was not to be eluded, and 
Constantia, in consenting that her work should, for the 
present, be performed gratuitously, solaced herself with the 
prospect of being able, by some future change of fortune, 
amply to reward her. 

Sarah’s abode was distant from danger, and her fears were 
turbulent. She was, nevertheless, punctual in her visits to 
the Dudleys, and anxious for their safety. In case of their 
sickness, she had declared her resolution to be their attend- 
ant and nurse. Suddenly, however, her visits ceased. 
The day on which her usual visit was paid, was the same 
with that on which Constantia sickened, but her coming was 
expected in vain. Her absence was, on some accounts, re- 
garded with pleasure, as it probably secured her from the 
danger connected with the office of a nurse, but it added to 
Constantia’s cares, inasmuch as her own sickness, or that of 
some of her family, was the only cause of her detention. 

To remove her doubts, the first use wliich Constantia 
made of her recovered strength, was to visit her laundress. 

I Saraii’s house was a theatre of suffering. Her husband was 

I, 5 * ' 


f 


54 


ORMOND. 


the first of his family assailed by the reigning disease. Two 
daughters, nearly grown to womanhood, well disposed and 
modest girls, the pride and support of theii’ mother, and who 
lived at service, returned home, sick, at the same time, and 
died in a few days. Her husband had struggled for eleven 
days with his disease, and was seized, just before Constan- 
tia’s arrival, with the pangs of death. 

Baxter was endowed with great robustness and activity. 
This disease did not vanquish him but with tedious and 
painful struggles. His muscular force now exhausted itself 
in ghastly contortions, and the house resounded with his 
ravings. Sarah’s courage had yielded to so rapid a succes- 
sion of evils. Constantia found her shut up in a chamber, 
distant from that of her dying husband, in a paroxysm of 
grief, and surrounded by her younger children. 

Constantia’s entrance was like that of an angelic comforter. 
Sarah was unqualified for any office but ffiat of complaint. 
With great difficulty she was made to communicate the 
knowledge of her situation. Her visitant then passed into 
Baxter’s apartment. She forced herself to endure this 
tremendous scene long enough to discover that it was hasten- 
ing to a close. She left the house, and hastening to the 
proper office, engaged tlie immediate attendance of a hearse. 
Before the lapse of an hour, Baxter’s lifeless remains were 
thrust into a coffin and conveyed away. 

Constantia now exerted herself to comfort and encourage 
the survivors. Her remonstrances incited Sarah to perform 
with alacrity the measures which prudence dictates on these 
occasions. The house was purified by the admission of air 
and the sprinkling of vinegar. Constantia applied her own 
hand to these tasks, and set her humble friend an example 
of forethought and activity. Sarah would not consent to 
part with her till a late hour in the evening. 

Tliese exertions had like to have been fatally injurious to 
Constantia. Her health was not sufficiently confirmed to 
sustain offices so arduous. In the course of tlie night her 
fatigue terminated in fever. In the present more salubrious 
state of the atmosphere, it assumed no malignant symptoms, 
and shortly disappeared. During her indisposition, she was 
attended by Sarah, in whose honest bosom no sentiment was 
more lively tlian gratitude. Constantia having promised to 


ORMOND. 


55 

renew her visit the next day, had been impatiendy expected, 
and Sarah had come to her dwelling in the evening, full of 
foreboding and anxiety, to ascertain the cause of her delay. 
Having gained die bedside of her patroness, no considera- 
tion could induce her to retire from it. 

Constantia’s curiosity was naturally excited as to die 
causes of Baxter’s disease. The simple hearted Sarah was 
prolix and minute in the history of her own affairs. No 
tlieme was more congenial to her temper than diat which 
was now proposed. In spite of redundance and obscurity 
in the style of the narrative, Constantia found in it powerful 
excitements of her sympathy. The tale, on its own account, 
as well as from the connexion of some of its incidents with 
a subsequent part of these memoirs, is worthy to be here in- 
serted. However foreign the destiny of Monrose may at 
present appear to the story of the Dudleys, there will here- 
after be discovered an intimate connexion between them. 


CHAPTER Vn. 

Adjacent to die house occupied by Baxter was an an- 
tique brick tenement. It was one of the first erections made 
by the followers of William Penn. It had the honor to be 
used as the temporary residence of that venerable person. 
Its moss-grown penthouse, crumbling walls, and ruinous 
porch, made it an interesting and picturesque object. Not- 
withstanding its age, it was still tenable. 

This house was occupied, during the preceding months, 
by a Frenchman. His dress and demeanor were respecta- 
ble. His mode of life was frugal almost to penuriousness, 
and his only companion was a daughter. The lady seemed 
not much less than thirty years of age, but was of a small 
and delicate frame. It was she diat performed every house- 
hold office. She brought water from the pump and provi- 
sions from the market. Their house had no visitants, and 
was almost always closed. Duly, as the morning returned, 
a venerable figure was seen issuing from his door, dressed 
in the same style of tarnished splendor and old fashioned 


ORMOND. 


56 

preciseness. At the dinner hour he as regularly returned. 
For the rest of the day he was invisible. 

The habitations in this quarter are few and scattered. 
The pestilence soon showed itself here, and the flight of 
most of the inhabitants, augmented its desolateness and drear- 
iness. For some time. Monrose, that was his name, made 
his usual appearance in the morning. At length the neigh- 
bors remarked that he no longer came forth as usual. Bax- 
ter had a notion that Frenchmen were exempt fi'om this dis- 
ease. He was, besides, deeply and rancorously prejudiced 
against that nation. There will be no difficulty in account- 
ing for this, when it is known that he had been an English 
grenadier at Dettingen and Minden. It must likewise be 
added, that he was considerably timid, and had sickness in 
his own family. Hence it was that the disappearance of 
Monrose excited in him no inquisitiveness as to the cause. 
He did not even mention this circumstance to otliers. 

The lady was occasionally seen as usual in the street. 
There were always remarkable peculiarities in her behaviour. 
In the midst of grave and disconsolate looks, she never laid 
aside an air of solemn dignity. She seemed to shrink from 
the observation of others, and her eyes were always fixed 
upon the ground. One evening Baxter was passing the 
pump while she was di'awing water. The sadness which 
her looks betokened, and a suspicion that her father might 
be sick, had a momentary effect upon his feelings. He 
stopped and asked how her father was. She paid a polite 
attention to liis question, and said sometliing in French. 
This and the embai'rassment of her air, convinced him tliat 
liis words were not understood. He said no more (what in- 
deed could he say 9) but passed on. 

Two or thi-ee days after this, on returning in the evening 
to his family, liis wife expressed her surprise in not having 
seen Miss Monrose in tlie street that day. She had not been 
at the pump, nor had gone, as usual, to market. This in- 
formation gave him some disquiet ; yet he could form no re- 
solution. As to entering the house and offering his aid, if 
aid were needed, he had too much regard for liis own safety, 
and too little for that of a frog-eating Frenchman, to tliink 
seriously of that expedient. His mention was speedily dh 


ORMOND. 


57 


verted by other objects, and Monrose was, for the present, 
forgotten. 

Baxter’s profession was that of a porter. He was thrown 
out of employment by the present state of tilings. The so- 
licitude of the guardians of the city was exerted on this oc- 
casion, not only in opposing the progress of disease, and 
furnishing provisions to the destitute, but in the preservation 
of property. For this end the number of nightly watclimen 
was increased. Baxter entered himself in this seiwice. From 
nine till twelve o’clock at night it was his province to occupy 
a certain post. 

On this night he attended his post as usual. Twelve 
o’clock arrived, and he bent his steps homeward. It was 
necessary to pass by Monrose’s door. On approaching this 
house, the circumstance mentioned by his wife recurred to 
him. Something like compassion was conjured up in his 
heart by the figure of the lady, as he recollected to have 
lately seen it. It was obvious to conclude that sickness was 
the cause of her seclusion. Tlie same, it might be, had 
confined her father. If this were true, how deplorable might 
be their present condition ! Without food, wthout physician 
or friends, ignorant of the language of the country, and thence 
unable to communicate their wants or solicit succor ; fugi- 
tives from theii* native land, neglected, solitary, and poor. 

His heart was softened by these images. He stopped in- 
voluntarily when opposite their door. He looked up at the 
house. Tlie shutters were closed, so that light, if it were 
vdthin, was invisible. He stepped into the porch, and put 
his eye to the key hole. All was darksome and waste. He 
listened and imagined that he heard the aspirations of grief. 
The sound was scarcely articulate, but had an electrical 
effect upon his feelings. He retired to his home full of 
mournful reflections. 

He was willing to do something for the relief of the suf- 
ferers, but nothing could be done that night. Yet succor, 
if delayed till tlie morning, might be ineffectual. But how, 
when the morning came, should he proceed to effectuate his 
kind intentions 9 The guardians of the public welfare, at 
this crisis, were distributed into those who counselled and 
those who executed. A set of men, self appointed to the 
generous office, employed themselves in seeking out the des- 


58 


ORMOND. 


titute or sick, and imparting relief. With this arrangement, 
Baxter was acquainted. He was resolved to carry tidings 
of what he had heard and seen to one of those persons early 
the next day. 

Baxter, after taking some refreshment, retired to rest. In 
no long time, however, he was awakened by his wife, who 
desired him to notice a certain glimmermg on the ceiling. It 
seemed the feeble and flitting ray of a distant and moving 
light, coming through the window. It did not proceed from 
the street, for the chamber was lighted from the side, and 
not from the front of tlie house. A lamp borne by a pas- 
senger, or the attendants of a hearse, could not be discov- 
ered in this situation. Besides, in tlie latter case, it would 
be accompanied by the sound of tlie vehicle, and probably, 
by weeping and exclamations of despair. His employment, 
as the guardian of property, naturally suggested to him the 
idea of robbery. He started from his bed, and went to the 
window. 

His house stood at tlie distance of about fifty paces from 
that of Monrose. There was annexed to the latter, a small 
garden or yard, bounded by a high wooden fence. Bax- 
ter’s window overlooked tliis space. Before he reached the 
window, the relative situation of the two habitations occurred 
to him. A conjecture was instantly formed that the glim- 
mering proceeded from this quarter. His eye, therefore, 
was immediately fixed upon Monrose’s back door. It caught 
a glimpse of a human figure, passing into the house, through 
this door. The person had a candle in his hand. This ap- 
peared by the light which streamed after him, and which 
was perceived, though faintly, tlu-ough a small window of the 
dwelling, after the back door was closed. 

The person disappeared too quickly to allow him to say 
whether it was male or female. This scrutiny confirmed, 
rather than weakened the apprehensions that first occurred. 
He reflected on the desolate and helpless condition of tliis 
family. The father might be sick ; and what opposition 
could be made by the daughter to the stratagems or violence 
of midnight plunderers. This was an evil which it was liis 
duty, in an extraordinary sense, to obviate. It is true, tlie 
hour of watching was passed, and this was not the district 
assigned to him ; but Baxter was, on the whole, of a gene^ 


ORMOND. 


59 

rous and intrepid spirit. In the present case, therefore, he 
did not hesitate long in forming his resolution. He seized 
a hanger that hung at his bedside, and which had hewn 
many a Hungarian and French hussar to pieces. With this 
he descended to the street. He cautiously approached Mon- 
rose’s house. He listened at the door, but heard nothing. 
The lower apartment, as he discovered tlirough the key hole, 
was deserted and dark. These appearances could not be 
accounted for. He \vas, as yet, unwilling to call or to knock. 
He was solicitous to obtain some information by silent means, 
and without alarming the persons within, who, if they were 
robbers, might thus be put upon their guard, and enabled to 
escape. If none but the family were there, they would not 
understand his signals, and might impute the disturbance to 
tlie cause which he was desirous to obviate. What could he 
do Must he patiently wait till some incident should hap- 
pen to regulate liis motions ^ 

In tiiis uncertainty, he bethought himself of going round to 
the back part of the dwelling, , and watching the door which 
had been closed. Ah open space, filled with rubbish and 
weeds, adjoined the hohse and garden on one side. Hither 
he repaired, and raising his head above the fence, at a point 
directly opposite die door, waited with considerable impa- 
tience for some token or signal, by which he might be direct- 
ed in his choice of measures. 

Human life abounds with mysterious appearances. A 
man, perched on a fence, at midnight, mute and motionless, 
and gazing at a dark and dreary dwelling, was an object cal- 
culated to rouse curiosity. When the muscular form, and 
rugged visage, scarred and furrowed into something like fe- 
rocity, were added ; when the nature of the calamity, by 
which the city was dispeopled, was considered, the motives 
to plunder, and the insecurity of property, arising from the 
pressure of new wants on the poor, and the flight or disease 
of the rich, w^ere attended to, an observer would be apt to 
admit fearful conjectures. 

We Imow not how long Baxter continued at this post. 
He remained here, because he could not, as he conceived, 
change it for a better. Before his patience was exhausted, 
his attention was called by a noise within the house. It pro- 
ceeded from the lower room. The sound was tliat of steps. 


ORMOND. 


60 

but this was accompanied with other inexplicable tokens. 
The kitchen door at length opened. The figure of Miss 
Monrose, pale, emaciated, and haggard, presented itself. 
Within the door stood a candle. It was placed on a chair 
within sight, and its rays streamed directly against the face 
of Baxter, as it was reared above the top of the fence. This 
illumination, faint as it was, bestowed a certain air of wild- 
ness on features which nature, and the sanguinary habits of 
a soldier, had previously rendered, in an eminent degree, 
harsh and stern. He was not aware of the danger of dis- 
covery, in consequence of this position of the candle. His 
attention was, for a few seconds, engrossed by the object 
before him. At length he chanced to notice another object. 

At a few yards distance from the fence, and within it, 
some one appeared to have been digging. An opening was 
made in the ground, but it was shallow and irregular. The 
implement which seemed to have been used, was nothing 
more than a fire shovel, for one of these he observed lying 
near the spot. The lady had withdrawn from tlie door, 
though without closing it. He had leisure, therefore, to at- 
tend to this new circumstance, and to reflect upon the pur- 
pose for which this opening might have been designed. 

Death is familiar to the apprehensions of a soldier. Bax- 
ter had assisted at the hasty interment of thousands, the vic- 
tims of the sword or of pestilence. Whether it was because 
this theatre of human calamity was new to him, and death, 
in order to be viewed with his ancient unconcern, must be 
accompanied in the ancient manner, with halberts and tents, 
certain it is, that Baxter was irresolute and timid in every 
thing that respected the yellow fever. The circumstances 
of the time suggested that this was a grave, to which some 
victim of this disease was to be consigned. His teeth chat- 
tered when he reflected how near he might now be to the 
source of infection; yet his curiosity retained him at his 
post. 

He fixed his eyes once more upon the door. In a short 
time the lady again appeared at it. She was in a stooping 
posture, and appeared to be dragging something along the 
floor. His blood ran cold at this spectacle. His fear in- 
stantly figured to itself a corpse, livid and contagious. Still 
he had no power to move. Tlie lady’s strength, enfeebled 


ORMOND. 


61 


as it was by grief, and perhaps by the absence of nourish- 
ment, seemed scarcely adequate to the task which she had 
assigned herself. 

Her burthen, whatever it was, was closely wrapt in a 
sheet. She drew it forward a few paces, dien desisted, and 
seated herself on the ground, apparently to recruit her 
strength, and give vent to the agony of her dioughts in sighs. 
Her tears were eitlier exhausted or refused to flow, for none 
were shed by her. Presently she resumed her undertaking. 
Baxter’s horror increased in proportion as she drew nearer 
to the spot where he stood, and yet it seemed as if some fas- 
cination had forbidden liim to recede. 

At length tlie burthen was dravm to the side of tlie open- 
ing in tlie earth. Here it seemed as if the mournful task 
was finished. She threw herself once more upon the eaith. 
Her senses seemed for a time to have forsaken her. She 
sat buried in reverie, her eyes scarcely open and fixed upon 
the ground, and every feature set to the genuine expression 
of sorrow. Some disorder, occasioned by the circumstance 
of dragging, now took place in the vestment of what he had 
rightly predicted to be a dead body. The veil by accident 
was drawn aside, and exhibited, to tlie startled eye of Bax- 
ter, the pale and ghastly visage of the unhappy Monrose. 

This incident determined him. Every joint in his frame 
trembled, and he hastily withdrew from the fence. His first 
motion in doing this produced a noise by which the lady was 
alarmed ; she suddenly thi-ew her eyes upward, and gained 
a full view of Baxter’s extraordinary countenance, just be- 
fore it disappeared. She rhanifested her terror by a pierc- 
ing shriek. Baxter did not stay to mark her subsequent 
conduct, to confirm or to dissipate her fears, but retired, in 
confusion, to his own house. 

Hitherto liis caution had availed him. He had carefully 
avoided all employments and places from wliich he imagined 
imminent danger was to be dreaded. Now, through his 
own inadvertency, he had rushed, as he believed, into the 
jaws of the pest. His senses had not been assailed by any 
noisome effluvia. Tliis was no unplausible ground for im- 
agining that his death had some other cause tlian tlie yellow 
fever. This circumstance did not occur to Baxter. He 
6 


ORMOND. 


62 

had been told that Frenchmen were not susceptible of this 
•contagion. He had hitherto believed this assertion, but now 
regarded it as having been fully confuted. He forgot that 
Frenchmen were undoubtedly mortal, and that there was no 
impossibility in Monrose’s dying, even at this time, of a mal- 
ady different from that which prevailed. 

Before morning he began to feel very unpleasant symp- 
toms. He related his late adventure to his wife. She en- 
deavored, by what arguments her slender ingenuity sug- 
gested, to quiet his apprehensions, but in vain. He hourly 
grew worse, and as soon as it was light, despatched his wife 
for a physician. On interrogating this messenger, the phy- 
sician obtained information of last night’s occurrences, and 
this being communicated to one of the dispensers of the pub- 
lic charity, they proceeded, early in die morning, to Mon- 
rose’s house. It was closed as usual. They knocked and 
called, but no one answered. They examined every avenue 
to the dwelling, but none of them were accessible. They 
passed into the garden, and observed, on the spot marked 
out by Baxter, a heap of earth. A very slight exertion was 
sufficient to remove it and discover die body of the unfortu- 
nate exile beneath. 

After unsuccessfully trying various expedients for entering 
the house, they deemed diemselves audiorized to break the 
door. They entered, ascended the staircase, and searched 
every apartment in the house, but no human being was dis- 
coverable. The furniture was wretched and scanty, but 
there was no proof that Monrose had fallen a victim to the 
reigning disease. It was certain that the lady had disappear- 
ed. It was inconceivable whidier she had gone. 

Baxter suffered a long period of sickness. The prevail- 
ing malady appeared upon him in its severest form. His 
strength of constitution, and the careful attendance of his 
wife, were insufficient to rescue him from die grave. His 
case may be quoted as an example of the force of imagina- 
tion. He had probably already received, through die me- 
dimn of the air, or by contact of which he was not con- 
scious, the seeds of this disease. They might perhaps have 
lain dormant, had not this panic occurred to endow them 
with activity. 


ORMOND. 


63 


CHAPTER Vm. 

Such were the facts circumstantially communicated by 
Sarah. They afforded to Constantia a theme of ardent med- 
itation. The similitude between her own destiny and that 
of this unhappy exile, could not fail to be observed. Im- 
mersed in poverty, friendless, burthened with the mainte- 
nance and nurture of her father, their circumstances were 
nearly parallel. The catastrophe of her tale, was the sub- 
ject of endless but unsatisfactory conjecture. 

She had disappeared between the flight of Baxter and the 
dawn of day. What path had she taken 9 Was she now 
alive Was she still an inhabitant of this city 9 Perhaps 
there was a coincidence of taste as well as fortunes between 
them. The only friend that Constantia ever enjoyed, con- 
genial with her in principles, sex and age, was at a distance 
that forbade communication. She imagined that Ursula Mon- 
rose would prove worthy of her love, and felt unspeakable 
regret at the improbability of their ever meeting. 

Meanwhile the dominion of cold began to be felt, and the 
contagious fever entirely disappeared. The return of health 
was hailed with rapture, by all ranks of people. The streets 
were once more busy and frequented. The sensation of 
present security seemed to shut out from all hearts the mem- 
ory of recent disasters. Public entertainments were throng- 
ed with auditors. A new theatre had lately been construct- 
ed, and a company of English Comedians had arrived dur- 
ing the prevalence of the malady. They now began their 
exhibitions, and their audiences were overflowing. 

Such is the motly and ambiguous condition of human 
society, such is the complexity of all effects from what 
cause soever they spring, that none can tell whether this 
destructive pestilence was, on the whole, productive of most 
pain or most pleasure. Those who had been sick and had 
recovered, found, in this circumstance, a source of exulta- 
tion. Others made haste, by new marriages, to supply the 
place of wives, husbands and children, whom the scarcely 
extinguished pestilence had swept away. 

Constantia, however, was permitted to take no share in 
the general festivity. Such was the color of her fate, tliat 


ORMOND. 


64 

the yellow fever, by affording her a respite from toil, supply- 
ing leisure for the acquisition of a useful branch of know- 
ledge, and leading her to the discovery of a cheaper, more 
simple, and more wholesome method of subsistence, had 
been fiiendly, instead of adverse, to her happiness. Its 
disappearance, instead of relieving her from suffering, was 
the signal for the approach of new cares. 

Of her ancient customers, some were dead, and others 
were slow in resuming their ancient habitations, and their 
ordinary habits. Meanwhile two wants were now created 
and were urgent. The season demanded a supply of fuel, 
and her rent had accumulated beyond her power to dis- 
charge. M’Crea no sooner returned horn the country, than 
he applied to her for payment. Some proprietors, guided 
by humanity, had remitted their dues, but M’Crea was not 
one of these. According to his own representation, no man 
was poorer than himself, and the punctual payment of all 
that was owing to him, was no more than sufficient to afford 
liim a scanty subsistence. 

He was aware of the indigence of the Dudleys, and was 
therefore extremely importunate for payment, and could 
scarcely be prevailed upon to allow them the interval of a 
day, for the discovery of expedients. This day was passed 
by Constantia in fruitless anxieties. The ensuing evening 
had been fixed for a repetition of his visit. The hour 
arrived, but her invention was exhausted in vain. M’Crea 
was punctual to the minute. Constantia was allowed no 
option. She merely declared ffiat the money demanded 
she had not to give, nor could she foresee any period at 
which her inability would be less than it then was. 

These declarations were heard by her visitant, with marks 
of unspeakable vexation. He did not fail to expatiate on 
the equity of his demands, the moderation and forbearance 
he had Wtherto shewn, notwithstanding the extreme urgency 
of his own wants, and the inflexible rigor with wliich he had 
been treated by his creditors. This rhetoric was merely 
the prelude to an intimation that he must avail himself of 
any lawful means, by which he might gain possession of his 
oion. 

This insinuation was folly comprehended by Constantia, 
but it was heard without any new emotions. Her know- 


ORMOND. 


65 


ledge of her landlord’s character taught her to expect but 
one consequence. He paused to observe what effect would 
be produced by this indirect menace. She answered, with- 
out any change of tone, that the loss of habitation and 
furniture, however inconvenient at this season, must be 
patiently endured. If it were to be prevented only by the 
payment of money, its prevention was impossible. 

M’Crea renewed his regrets, that there should be no other 
alternative. The law sanctioned his claims, and justice to 
his family, which was already large, and likely to increase, 
required that they should not be relinquished, yet such was 
the mildness of fiis temper and his aversion to proceed to 
this extremity, that he was willing to dispense witli immediate 
payment on two conditions. First, tliat they should leave 
his house witliin a week, and secondly, that they ' should 
put into his hands some trinket or moveable, equal in value 
to the sum demanded, which should be kept by him as a 
pledge. 

Tiiis last hint suggested an expedient for obviating the 
present distress. The lute with which Mr. Dudley was 
accustomed to solace his solitude, was, if possible, more 
essential to his happiness than shelter or food. To liis 
daughter it possessed little dhect power to please. It was 
inestimable merely for her fatlier’s sake. Its intrinsic value 
was at least equal to the sum due, but to part with it was to 
bereave him of a good, which nothing else could supply. 
Besides, not being a popular and saleable instrument, it 
would probably be contemptuously rejected by the ignorance 
and avarice of M’Crea. 

Tliere was another article in her possession, of some value 
in traffic, and of a kind which M’Crea was far more likely 
to accept. It was the miniature portrait of her friend, 
executed by a German artist, and set in gold. This iinage 
was a precious though imperfect substitute for sympathy and 
intercourse with the original. Habit had made this picture 
a source of a species of idolatry. Its power over her 
sensations was similar to that possessed by a beautiful 
Madonna over the heart of a juv^enile enthusiast. It was the 
moffier of the only devotion which her education had taught 
her to consider as beneficial or true. 

6 * 


(56 


ORMOND. 


She perceived the necessity of parting with it on this 
occasion, with the utmost clearness, but this necessity was 
thought upon with indescribable repugnance. It seemed as if 
she had not thoroughly conceived the extent of her calami- 
ty till now. It seemed as if she could have endured the 
loss of eyes with less reluctance than the loss of this inesti- 
mable relic. Bitter were the tears which she shed over 
it as she took it from her bosom, and consigned it to those 
rapacious hands, that were stretched out to receive it. She 
derived some little consolation from the promises of this man, 
that he would keep it safely till she was able to redeem it. 

The other condition, that of immediate removal from the 
house, seemed at first sight impracticable. Some reflection, 
however, shewed her, that the change might not only be 
possible but useful. Among other expedients for diminishing 
expense, that of limiting her furniture and dwelling to the 
cheapest standard, had often occurred. She now remem- 
bered, that the house occupied by Monrose, was tenantless ; 
that its antiquity, its remote and unpleasant situation, and its 
small dimensions, might induce M’Crea, to whom it belonged, 
to let it at a much lower price than that which he now ex- 
acted. M’Crea would have been better pleased if her 
choice had fallen on a different house, but he had powerful 
though sordid reasons for desiring the possession of this 
tenement. He assented therefore to her proposal, provided 
her removal took place without delay. 

In the present state of her funds this removal was impos- 
sible. Mere shelter, would not suffice during this inclement 
season. Without fuel, neither cold could be excluded, nor 
hunger relieved. There was nothing, convertible into money, 
but her lute. No sacrifice was more painful, but an irresist- 
ible necessity demanded it. 

Her interview with M’Crea took place while her father 
was absent from the room. On his return she related what 
had happened, and urged the necessity of pai*ting with his 
favorite instrument. He listened to her tale with a sigh. 
Y*es, said he, do what thou wilt, my child. It is unlikely 
that any one \vill purchase it. It is certain that no one will 
give for it what I gave ; but thou may’st try. 

It has been to me a faithful friend. I know not how I 
should have lived without it. Its notes have cheered me 


ORMOND. 


67 

with the sweet remembrances of old times. It w^as, in some 
degree, a substitute for the eyes which I have lost, but now 
let it go, and perform for me perhaps the dearest of its 
services. It may help us to sustain the severities of this 
season. 

There was no room for delay. She immediately set out 
in search of a purchaser. Such a one was most likely to 
be found in the keeper of a musical repository, who had 
lately arrived from Europe. She entertained but slight 
hopes that an instrument, scarcely known among her neigh- 
bors, would be bought at any price, however inconsiderable. 

She found the keeper of the shop engaged in conversa- 
tion with a lady, whose person and face instantly ai’rested 
the attention of Constantia. A less sagacious observer 
would have eyed the stranger with indifference. But Con- 
stantia was ever busy in interpreting the language of features 
and looks. Her sphere of observation had been narrow, 
but her habits of examining, comparing and deducing, had 
thoroughly exhausted that sphere. These habits were 
eminently strong, with relation to this class of objects. She 
delighted to investigate the human countenance, and trea- 
sured up numberless conclusions as to the coincidence be- 
tween mental and external qualities. 

She had often been forcibly struck by forms that were 
accidentally seen, and which abounded with this species of 
mute expression. They conveyed at a single glance, what 
could not be imparted by volumes. The features and shape 
sunk, as it were, into perfect harmony with sentiments and 
passions. Every atom of tlie frame was pregnant with 
significance. In some, nothing was remarkable but this 
power of the outward figure to exliibit the internal senti- 
ments. In others, the intelligence thus unveiled, was re- 
markable for its heterogeneous or energetic qualities ; for its 
tendency to fill her heart with veneration or abhorrence, or 
to involve her in endless perplexities. 

The accuracy and vividness with which pictures of this 
kind presented themselves to her imagination, resembled tlie 
operations of a sixth sense. It cannot be doubted, however, 
that much was owing to the enthusiastic tenor of her o^vn 
conceptions, and ttiat her conviction of the truth of the 


ORMOND. 


68 

picture, principally flowed from the distinctness and strength 
of its hues. 

The figure which she now examined, was small but of 
exquisite proportions. Her complexion testified the influence 
of a torrid sun, but the darkness veiled, without obscuring, 
the glowing tints of her cheek. The shade was remarkably 
deep, but a deeper still was required to become incompati- 
ble with beauty. Her features were irregular, but defects of 
symmetry were amply supplied by eyes tliat anticipated 
speech, and positions which conveyed that to which language 
was inadequate. 

It was not the chief tendency of her appearance to seduce 
or to melt. Her’s were the polished cheek and the muta- 
bility of muscle, which belong to woman, but the genius 
conspicuous in her aspect, was heroic and contemplative. 
The female was absorbed, so to speak, in the ration^ crea- 
ture, and the emotions most apt to be excited in the gazer, 
paitook less of love than of reverence. 

Such is the portrait of this stranger, delineated by Con- 
stantia. I copy it with greater willingness, because if we 
substitute a nobler stature, and a complexion less uniform 
and delicate, it is suited, with the utmost accuracy, to her- 
self. She was probably unconscious of this resemblance, 
but this circumstance may be supposed to influence her in 
discovering such attractive properties in a form thus vaguely 
seen. These impressions, permanent and cogent as they 
were, were gained at a single glance. The purpose w'hich 
led her thitlier was too momentous to be long excluded. 

Why, said the master of the shop, this is lucky. Here 
is a lady who has just been inquiring for an instrument of 
this kind. Perhaps ^he one you have will suit her. If you 
will bring it to me, I will examine it, and if it is complete, 
will make a bargain with you. — He then turned to the lady 
who had first entered, and a short dialogue in French ensued 
between them. The man repeated his assurances to Con- 
stantia, who, promising to hasten back with the instrument, 
took her leave. The lute, in its sti'ucture and ornaments, 
has rarely been surpassed. When scrutinized by this artist, 
it proved to be complete, and the price demanded for it was 
readily given. 

By this means the Dudleys were enabled to change their 


ORMOND. 


69 

habitation, and to supply themselves with fuel. To obviate 
future exigencies, Constantia betook herself, once more, to 
die needle. They persisted in the use of their simple fare, 
and endeavored to contract their wants and methodize their 
occupations, by a standard as rigid as possible. She had 
not relinquished her design of adopting a new and more 
liberal profession, but though, when indistinctly and generally 
considered, it seemed easily effected, yet the first steps 
which it would be proper to take, did not clearly or readily 
suggest themselves. For the present she was contented to 
pursue the beaten tract, but was prepared to benefit by any 
occasion that time might furnish, suitable to the execution of 
her plan. 


CHAPTER IX. 

It may be asked, if a woman of this character did not 
attract the notice of tiie world. Her station, no less than 
her modes of thinking, excluded her from the concourse of 
the opulent and the gay. She kept herself in privacy, her. 
engagements confined her to her own fireside, and her 
neighbors enjoyed no means of penetrating through that 
obscurity in which she wrapt herself. There were, no 
doubt, persons of her own sex, capable of estimating her 
worth, and who could have hastened to raise so much merit 
from the indigence to which it was condemned. She might, 
at least, have found associates and friends, justly entitled to 
her affection. But whether she were peculiarly unfortunate 
in this respect, or whether it arose from a jealous and un- 
bending spirit that would remit none of its claims to respect, 
and was backward in its overtures to kindness and intimacy, 
it so happened that her hours were, for a long period, enliven- 
ed by no companion but her father and her faithful Lucy. 
The humbleness of her dwelling, her plain garb, and the 
meanness of her occupation, were no passports to the favor of 
the rich and vain. These, added to her youth and beauty, 
frequently exposed her to insults, from which, though pro- 
ductive for a time of mortification and distress, she, for the 


ORMOND. 


79 

most part, extricated herself by her spirited carriage, and 
presence of mind. 

One incident of this kind it will be necessary to mention. 
One evening her engagements carried her abroad. She 
had proposed to return immediately, finding by experience 
the danger that was to be dreaded by a woman young and 
unprotected. Somewhat occurred that unavoidably length- 
ened her stay, and she set out on her return at a late hour. 
One of the other sex offered her his guardianship, but this 
she declined, and poceeded homeward alone. 

Her way lay through streets but little inhabited, and 
whose few inhabitants were of the profligate class. She 
was conscious of the inconveniences to which she was ex- 
posed, and therefore tripped along \vitli all possible haste. 
She had not gone far before she perceived, through the 
dusk, two men standing near a porch before her. She had 
gone too far to recede or change her course without excit- 
ing observation, and she flattered herself that the persons 
would behave with decency. Encouraged by these reflec- 
tions, and somewhat hastening her pace, she went on. As 
soon as she came opposite tlie place where they stood, one 
of them threw himself round, and caught her arm, exclaim- 
ing, in a broad tone, “ Whither so fast, my love, at this time 
of night*?” The other, at the same time, threw his arms 
round her waist, crying out, “ A pretty prize, by G — ; just 
in the nick of time.” 

They were huge and brawny fellows, in whose grasp her 
feeble strength was anniliilated. Their motions were so 
sudden, that she had not time to escape by flight. Her 
struggles merely furnished them witJi a subject of laughter. 
He tliat held her waist, proceeded to pollute her cheeks 
with his kisses, and drew her into tlie porch. He tore her 
from the grasp of him who first seized her, who seemed to 
think his property invaded, and said, in a surly tone ; “ Wliat 
now. Jemmy *? Damn your heart, d’ye think I ’ll be fobbed *? 
Have done with your slabbering. Jemmy. First come, first 
served and seemed disposed to assert his claims by force. 

To this brutality, Constantia had nothing to oppose but 
fruitless struggles and shrieks for help. Succor was, for- 
tunately, at hand. Her exclamations were heard by a per- 
son across the street, who instantly ran, and with some diffi- 


©RMOND. 


71 


culty disengaged her from the grasp of the ruffians. He 
accompanied her die rest of the way, bestowed on her 
every polite attention, and, though pressed to enter the 
house, declined the invitation. She had no opportunity of 
examining the appearance of her new friend. This, the 
darkness of the night and her own panic, prevented. 

Next day a person .called upon her whom she instantly 
recognized to be her late protector. He came with some 
message from his sister. His manners were simple and un- 
ostentatious, and breathed the genuine spirit of civility. 
Having performed his commission, and once more received 
the thanks which she poured fordi with peculiar warmth, 
for his last night’s interposition, he took his leave. 

Tlie name of this man was Balfour. He was middle- 
aged, of a figure neither elegant nor ungainly, and an aspect 
that was mild and placid, but betrayed few marks of intelli- 
gence. He was an adventurer from Scotland, whom a 
strict adherence to the maxims of trade had rendered opu- 
lent. He was governed by the principles of mercantile 
integrity in all his dealings, and was affable and kind, with- 
out being generous, in his treatment of inferiors. He was 
a stranger to violent emotions of any kind, and his intellec- 
tual acquisitions were limited to his own profession. 

His demeanor was tranquil and uniform. He was sparing 
of words, and these were uttered in die softest manner. In 
all his transactions, he was sedate and considerate. In his 
dress and mode of living, there were no appeai ances of par- 
simony, but there were, likewise, as few traces of profusion. 

His sister had shared in his prosperity. As soon as his 
affairs would permit, he sent for her to Scotland, where she 
had lived in a state little removed from penury, and had for 
some years, been vested with the superintendence of his 
household. There was a considerable resemblance between 
them in person and character. Her profession, or those 
arts in which her situation had compelled her to acquire 
skill, had not an equal tendency to enlarge the mind, as 
those of her brother, but the views of each were limited to 
one set of objects. His superiority was owing, not to any 
inherent difference, but to accident. 

Balfour’s life had been a model of chasteness and regular- 
ity : though this was owing more to constitutional coldness 


ORMOND. 


7^ 

and a frugal spirit, than to virtuous forbearance ; but, in his 
schemes for tlie future, he did not exclude the circumstance 
of marriage. Having attained a situation secure, as the 
nature of human affairs wiU admit, from the chances of pov- 
erty, tlie way was sufficiently prepared for matrimony. His 
thoughts had been for some time employed in the selection 
of a suitable companion, when this rencounter happened with 
Miss Dudley. 

Balfour was not destitute of those feelings which are call- 
ed into play by the sight of youth and beauty in distress. 
This incident was not speedily forgotten. Tffie emotions 
produced by it were new to him. He reviewed them often- 
er, and with more complacency, than any which he had 
before experienced. They afforded him so much satisfaction, 
that, in order to preserve them undiminished, he resolved 
to repeat his visit. Constantia treated him as one from 
whom she had received a considerable benefit. Her sweet- 
ness and gentleness were uniform, and Balfour found that 
her humble roof promised him more happiness than his own 
fireside, or the society of his professional brethren. 

He could not overlook, in the course of such reflections 
as these, the question relative to mai*riage, and speedily de- 
termined to solicit the honor of her hand. He had not 
decided without his usual foresight and deliberation; nor 
had he been wanting in the accuracy of his observations and 
inquiries. Those qualifications, indeed, wffiich were of chief 
value in liis eyes, lay upon tlie surface. He was no judge 
of her intellectual character, or of the loftiness of her morali- 
ty. Not even the graces of person, or features, or manners, 
attracted much of his attention. He remarked her admira- 
ble economy of time, and money, and labor, the simplicity 
of her dress, her evenness of temper, and her love of seclu- 
sion. These were essential requisites of a wife in his ap- 
prehension. The insignificance of his own birth, the lowness 
of liis original fortune, and the efficacy of industry and tem- 
perance to confer and maintain w^ealth, had taught liim in- 
difference as to birth or fortune in liis spouse. His mode- 
rate desires in this respect were gratified, and he was anx- 
ious only for a partner that would aid him in preserving, 
rather than in enlarging his property. He esteemed himself 


ORMOND. 


73 


eminently fortunate in meeting with one in whom every matri- 
monial qualification concentred. 

He was not deficient in modesty, but he fancied that, on 
this occasion, there was no possibility of miscarriage. He 
held her capacity in deep veneration, but this circumstance 
rendered him more secure of success. He conceived this 
union to be even more eligible with regard to her than to 
himself ; and confided in the rectitude of her understanding, 
for a decision favorable to his wishes. 

Before any express declaration was made, Constantia 
easily predicted the event from the frequency of his visits, and 
the attentiveness of his manners. It was no difficult task to 
ascertain this man’s character. Her modes of thinking were, 
in few respects, similar to those of her lover. She was eager 
to investigate, in the first place, the attributes of his mind. 
His professional and household maxims were not of incon- 
siderable importance, but they were subordinate considera- 
tions. In the poverty of his discourse and ideas, she quickly 
found reasons for determining her conduct. 

Marriage she had but little considered, as it is in itself. 
What are the genuine principles of that relation, and what 
conduct with respect to it, is prescribed to rational beings, by 
their duty, she had not hitherto investigated. But she was 
not backward to inquire what are the precepts of duty, in 
her own particular case. She knew herself to be young ; 
she was sensible of the daily enlargement of her knowledge ; 
every day contributed to rectify some error or confirm some 
truth. These benefits she owed to her situation, which, 
whatever were its evils, gave her as much freedom from re- 
straint as is consistent with the state of human affairs. Her 
poverty fettered her exertions, and circumscribed her plea- 
sures. Poverty, therefore, was an evil, and the reverse of 
poverty to be desired. But riches were not barren of con- 
straint, and its advantages might be purchased at too dear a 
rate. 

Allowing that the wife is enriched by marriage, how hu- 
miliating were the conditions annexed to it in the present 
case The company of one with whom we have no sym- 
pathy, nor sentiments in common, is, of all spedes of soli- 
tude, the most loathsome and dreary. The nuptial life is 
7 


74 


ORMOND. 


attended with peculiar aggravations, since the tie is infrangi- 
ble, and the choice of a more suitable companion, if such a 
one should offer, is forever precluded. The hai’dships of 
wealth are not incompensated by some benefits, but diese 
benefits, false and hoUow as tliey are, cannot be obtained by 
marriage. Her acceptance of Balfour would merely aggra- 
vate her indigence. 

Now she was at least mistress of the product of her own 
labor. Her tasks were toilsome, but the profits, though 
slender, were sure, and she administered her little property 
in what manner she pleased. Marriage would annihilate this 
power. Henceforth she would be bereft even of personal 
freedom. So far from possessing property, she herself would 
become the property of another. 

She was not unaware of the consequences flowing from 
differences of capacity ; and, that power, to whomsoever le- 
gally granted, will be exercised by the most addressful ; but 
she derived no encouragement from these considerations. 
She would not stoop to gain her end by the hateful arts of 
the sycophant ; and was too wise to place an unbounded re- 
liance on the influence of trutli. The character, likewise, of 
this man sufficiently exempted him from either of those in- 
fluences. 

She did not forget the nature of the altar vows. To ab- 
dicate the use of her owm understanding, w^as scarcely justifi- 
able in any case, but to vow an affection that was not felt, 
and could not be compelled, and to promise obedience to 
one, whose judgment was glaringly defective, were acts atro- 
ciously criminal. Education, besides, had created in her an 
insurmountable abhorrence of admitting to conjugal privileges, 
the man w^ho had no claim upon her love. It could not be 
denied that a state of abundant accommodation was better 
than the contrary, but this consideration, though in the most 
rational estimate, of some weight, she was not so depraved 
and effeminate as to allow to overw^eigh the opposite evils. 
Homely liberty was better than splendid servitude. 

Her resolution was easily formed, but there were certain 
impediments in the way of its execution. These chiefly 
arose from deference to tlie opinion, and compassion for the 
infirmities of her father. He assumed no control over her 
actions. His reflections in the present case, were rather 


ORMOND. 


75 


understood than expressed. When uttered it was widi the 
mildness of equality, and the modesty of persuasion. It was 
this circumstance that conferred upon them all their force. 
His decision, on so delicate a topic, was not wanting in sa- 
gacity and moderation ; but, as a man, he had his portion of 
defects, and his frame was enfeebled by disease and care ; 
yet he set no higher value on the ease and independence of 
his former condition, than any man of like experience. 
He could not endure to exist on the fruits of his daughter’s 
labor. He ascribed her decision to a spirit of excessive re- 
finement, and was, of course, disposed to give little quarter 
to maiden scruples. They were phantoms, he believed, 
which experience would dispel. His morality, besides, was 
of a much more flexible kind ; and the marriage vows were, 
in his opinion, formal and unmeaning, and neither in them- 
selves, nor in the apprehension of the world, accompanied 
with any rigorous obligation. He drew more favorable omens 
from the Imown capacity of his daughter, and the flexibility 
of her lover. 

She demanded his opinion and advice. She listened to 
iris reasonings, and revolved them with candor and impartial- 
ity. She stated her objections with simplicity, but the dif- 
ference of age and sex was sufficient to preclude agreement. 
Arguments were of no use but to prolong the debate ; but, 
happily, the magnanimity of Mr. Dudley would admit of no 
sacrifice. Her opinions, it is true, were erroneous ; but he 
was willing that she should regulate her conduct by her owm 
conceptions of right, and not by those of another. To re- 
fuse Balfour’s offers was an evil, but an evil inexpressibly 
exceeded by that of accepting them contrary to her own 
sense of propriety. 

Difficulties, likewise, arose from the consideration of what 
was due to the man who had already benefited her, and 
who, in this act, intended to confer upon her furtlier benefit. 
These, though the source of some embarrassments, were not 
sufficient to shake her resolution. Balfour could not under- 
stand her principal objections. They were of a size alto- 
gether disproportioned to his capacity. Her moral specula- 
tions were quite beyond the sphere of his reflections. She 
coujd not expatiate, without a breach of civility, on the dis- 


76 


ORMOND. 


pai’ity of their minds, and yet this was the only or principal 
ground on which she had erected her scruples. 

Her father loved her too well not to be desirous of reliev- 
ing her from a painful task, tliough undertaken without ne- 
cessity, and contrary to his opinion. Refer him to me, 
said he ; I will make the best of the matter, and render your 
refusal as palatable as possible, but do you authorize me to 
make it absolute, and without appeal — 

My dear father ! how good you are ! but that shall be 
my province. If I err, let the consequences of my mistake 
be confined to myself. It would be cruel indeed, to make 
you the instrument in a transaction which your judgment dis- 
approves. My reluctance was a weak and foolish tiling. 
Strange, indeed, if the purity of my motives will not bear me 
out on this, as it has done on many more arduous occasions. 

Well, be it so ; that is best I believe. Ten to one but I, 
with my want of eyes, would blunder, while yours will be of 
no smaD use, in a contest with a lover. They will serve you 
to watch the transitions in his placid physiognomy, and over- 
power his discontents. 

She was aware of the inconveniences to which tliis reso- 
lution would subject her, but since they were unavoidable, 
she armed herself witli the requisite patience. Her appre- 
hensions were not without reason. More than one confer- 
ence was necessary to convince him of her meaning, and in 
order to effect her purpose, she was obliged to behave witli 
so much explicitness, as to hazard giving him oflfence. Tliis 
affair was productive of no small vexation. He had put too 
much faith in the validity of his pretensions, and the benefits 
of perseverance, to be easily shaken off. 

This decision was not borne by him with as much patience 
as she wished. He deemed himself unjustly treated, and 
his resentment exceeded those bounds of moderation wl^ich 
he prescribed to himself on all other occasions. From his 
anger, however, tliere was not much to be dreaded, but, un- 
fortunately, his sister partook of his indignation and indulged 
her petulance, which was enforced by every gossiping and 
tatling propensity, to the irreparable disadvantage of Con- 
stantia. 

She owed her support to her needle. She was depen- 
dent tlierefore on the caprice of customers. This caprice 


ORMOND. 


77 


was swayable by every breath, and paid a merely subordi- 
nate regard, in the choice of workwomen, to the circum- 
stances of skill, cheapness and diligence. In consequence 
of this, her usual sources of subsistence began to fail. 

Indigence, as well as wealth, is comparative. He, indeed, 
must be wretched, whose food, clotliing and shelter are limit- 
ed, both in kind and quantity, by the standard of mere ne- 
cessity ; who, in the choice of food, for example, is governed 
by no consideration but its cheapness, and its capacity to 
sustain nature. Yet to this degree of wretchedness was Miss 
Dudley reduced. 

As her means of subsistence began to decay, she reflected 
on the change of employment that might become necessary. 
She was mistress of no lucrative art, but that which now 
threatened to be useless. There was but one avenue 
through which she could hope to escape from the pressure 
of absolute want. This, she regarded with an aversion, 
that nothing but extreme necessity, and the failure of every 
other expedient, would be able to subdue. This was the 
hiring herself as a servant. Even that could not answer all 
her purposes. If a subsistence were provided by it for 
herself, whither should her father, and her Lucy betake 
themselves for support. 

Hitherto her labor had been sufficient to shut out famine 
and the cold. It is true she had been cut off* from all the 
direct means of personal or mental gratification ; but her 
constitution had exempted her from the insalutary effects of 
sedentary application. She could not tell how long she 
could enjoy this exemption, but it was absurd to anticipate 
those evils which might never arrive. Meanwhile, her situa- 
tion was not destitute of comfort. The indirect means of 
intellectual improvement, in conversation and reflection, the 
inexpensive amusement of singing, and, above all, the con- 
sciousness of performing her duty, and maintaining her in- 
dependence inviolate, were still in her possession. Her 
lodging was humble, and her fare frugal, but these, temper- 
ance and a due regard to the use of money, would require 
from the most opulent. 

Now, retrenchments must be made even from this penu- 
rious provision. Her exertions might soaiewnat defer, but 
7 * 


78 


ORMONJi). 


could not prevent tlie ruin of her unhappy family. Then- 
landlord was a severe exacter of liis dues. The day of 
quarterly payment was past, and he had not failed in his 
usual punctuality. She was unable to satisfy his demands, 
and Mr. Dudley was officiaUy informed, that unless payment 
was made before a day fixed, resort would be had to the 
law, in that case made and provided. 

This seemed to be the completion of their misfortunes. 
It was not enough to soften the implacability of their land- 
lord. A respite might possibly be obtained from this harsh 
sentence. Intreaties might prevail upon him to allow of 
their remaining under this roof for some time longer ; but 
shelter at this inclement season was not enough. Without 
fire they must perish with tlie cold ; and fuel could be pro- 
cured only for money, of which the last shilling was expend- 
ed. Food was no less indispensable, and, their credit being 
gone, not a loaf could be extorted from the avarice of the 
bakers in the neighborhood. 

The sensations produced by this accumulation of distress 
may be more easily conceived than described. Mr. Dud- 
ley sunk into despair, when Lucy informed him that the 
billet of wood she was putting on the fire was the last. 
Well, said he, the game is up. Where is my daughter 9 — 
The answer was that she was up stairs. 

Why, there she has been this ^hour. Tell her to come 
down and warm herself. She must needs be cold and here 
is a cheerful blaze. I feel it myself. Ifike the lightning 
that precedes death, it beams thus brightly, though, in a few 
moments, it will be extinguished forever. Let my darling 
come, and partake of its comforts before they expire. 

Constantia had retired in order to review her situation, 
and devdse some expedients that might alleviate it. It was 
a sore extremity to which she was reduced. Things had 
come to a desperate pass, and the remedy required must 
be no less desperate. It was impossible to see her father 
perish. She herself would have died before she would 
have condescended to beg. It was not worth prolonging a 
life which must subsist upon alms. She would have wan- 
Xtered into the fields at dusk, have seated herself upon an 
unfrequented bank, and serenely waited the approach of 
that death, which the rigors of the season would have 


ORMOND. 70 

rendered sure. But, as it was, it became her to act in a 
very different manner. 

During her father’s prosperity, some mercantile inter- 
course had taken place between him and a merchant of this 
city. The latter, on some occasion, had spent a few nights 
at her father’s house. She was greatly charmed with tho 
humanity that shone forth in his conversation and behavior. 
From that time to this, all intercourse had ceased. She was 
acquainted with the place of his abode, and knew him to be 
affluent. To him she determined to apply as a suppliant in 
behalf of her father. She did not inform Mr. Dudley of 
this intention, conceiving it best to wait till the event had 
been ascertained, for fear of exciting fallacious expectations. 
She was further deterred by the apprehension of awakening 
his pride, and bringing on herself an absolute prohibition. 

She arrived at the door of Mr. Melbourne’s house, and 
iiiquiring for the master of it, was informed that he had 
gone out of town, and was not expected to return within a 
week. 

Her scheme, which was by no means unplausible, was 
thus completely frustrated. There was but one other re- 
source, on which she had already deliberated, and to which 
she had determined to apply, if tliat should fail. That was 
to claim assistance from the superintendents of the poor. 
She was employed in considering to which of them, and in 
what manner she should make her application, when she 
turned the corner of Lombard and Second streets. That 
had scarcely been done, when, casting her eyes mournfully 
round her, she caught a glimpse of a person whom she in- 
stantly recognised, passing into the market place. She 
followed him with quick steps, and, on a second examination, 
found that she had not been mistaken. This was no other 
than Thomas Craig, to whose malignity and cunning, all her 
misfortunes were imputable. 

She was at first uncertain what use to make of this dis- 
covery. She followed him almost instinctively, and saw liim 
at length enter the Indian Queen Tavern. Here she stop- 
ped. She entertained a confused conception, that some 
beneficial consequences might be extracted from tliis event. 
In the present huriy of her thoughts she could form no satis- 
factory conclusion ; but it instantly occurred to her that it 


ORMOND. 


80 

would, at least be proper to ascertain the place of his abode. 
She stept into the inn, and made the suitable inquiries. She 
was informed that the gentleman had come from Baltimore, 
a month before, and had since resided at that house. How 
soon he meant to leave the city, her informant was unable 
to tell. 

Having gained this intelligence, she returned home, and 
once more shut herself in her chamber to meditate on this 
new posture of affairs. 


CHAPTER X. 

Craig was indebted to her fatlier. He had defrauded 
liim by the most atrocious and illicit arts. On eitlier 
account he was liable to prosecution, but her lieart rejected 
tlie thought of being the author of injury to any man. The 
dread of punishment, how'ever, might induce him to refund, 
uncoercively, the whole or some part of the stolen property. 
Money was at tliis moment necessary to existence, and she 
conceived herself justly entitled to that, of wliich her father 
had been perfidiously despoiled. 

But the law was formal and circuitous. Money itself 
was necessary to purchase its assistance. Besides, it could 
not act with unseen virtue and instantaneous celerity. Tlie 
co-operation of advocates and officers W’^as required. They 
must be visited, and harangued, and importuned. Was she 
adequate to the task'? Would tlie energy of her mind 
supply the place of experience, and, with a sort of miracu- 
lous efficacy, afford her tlie knowledge of official processes 
and dues *? As little, on this occasion, could be expected 
from her father, as from her. He was infirm and blind. 
The spirit that animated his former days was flown. His 
heait’s blood was chilled by the rigors of his fortune. He 
had discarded his indignation and his enmities, and, togetlier 
with them, hope itself had perished in his bosom. He 
waited in tranquil despair, for that stroke vvliich would deliver 
him from life, and all tlie woes that it inherits. 

But these considerations were superfluous. It was enough 


ORMOND. 


81 

that justice must be bought, and that she had not the equiva- 
lent. Legal proceedings are encumbered with delay, and 
her necessities were urgent. Succor, if withheld till the 
morrow, would be useless. Hunger and cold would not be 
trifled with. What resource was there left in tliis her utter- 
most distress Must she yield, in imitation of her father, 
to tlte cowardly suggestions of despair ? 

Craig might be rich. His coffers might be stuffed witli 
thousands. All that he had, according to the principles of 
social equity, was hers ; yet he, to whom nothing belonged, 
rioted in superfluity, while she, the riglitful claimant, was 
driven to tlie point of utmost need. The proper instrument 
of her restoration was law, but its ai’m was powerless, for 
she had not the means of bribing it into activity. But was 
law the only instrument 9 

Craig, perhaps, was accessible. Might she not, with 
propriety, demand an interview, and lay before him the con- 
sequences of his baseness He was not divested of the 
last remains of humanity. It was impossible that he should 
not relent at the picture of those distresses of wliich he was 
the author. Menaces of legal prosecution she meant not 
to use, because she was unalterably resolved against that 
remedy. She confided in the efficacy of her pleadings to 
awaken his justice. This inteiwiew she was determined im- 
mediately to seek. She was aware that by some accident 
her purpose might be frustrated. Access to his person, 
might, for the present, be impossible, or might be denied. 
It was proper therefore to write him a letter, which might be 
substituted in place of an interview. It behoved her to be 
expeditious, for the light was failing, and her strength was 
nearly exhausted by the hurr}^ of her spirits. Her fingers, 
likewise, were benumbed with the cold. She performed 
her task, under these disadvantages, with much difficulty. 
This was the purport of her letter. 

Thomas Craig, 

An hour ago I was in Second street, and 
saw you. I followed you till you entered the Indian Queen 
Tayern. Knowing where you are, I am now preparing to 
demand an interview. I may be disappointed in this hope, 
and therefore write you this. 


82 


ORMOND. 


I do not come to upbraid you, to call you to a legal, or 
any other account for your actions. I presume not to weigh 
your merits. Tlie God of equity be your judge. May he 
be as merciful, in the hour of retiibution, as I am disposed 
to be. 

It is only to inform you that my father is on the point of 
perishing with want. You know who it was that reduced 
him to this condition. I persuade myself I shall not appeal 
to your justice in vain. Learn of this justice to afford him 
instant succor. 

You know who it was that took you in, a houseless 
wanderer ; protected and fostered your youth, and shared 
with you his confidence and his fortune. It is he who now, 
blind and indigent, is threatened, by an inexorable landlord, 
to be thi’ust into the street ; and who is, at this moment, 
without fire and without bread. 

He once did you some little service ; now he looks to be 
compensated. All the retribution he asks, is to be saved 
from perishing. Surely you will not spurn at his claims. 
Thomas Craig has done nothing that shews him deaf to 
the cries of distress. He would relieve a dog from such 
suffering. 

Forget that you have known my father in any^ character 
but that of a supplicant for bread. I promise you that, on 
this condition, I, also, will forget it. If you are so far just, 
you have nothing to fear. Your property and reputation 
shall both be safe. My father knows not of your being in 
this city. His enmities are extinct, and if you comply witli 
this request, he shall know you only as a benefactor. 

C. Dudley. 

Having finished and folded tliis epistle, she once more 
returned to the tavern. A waiter informed her that Craig 
had lately been in, and was now gone out to spend the 
evening. Whither had he gone "7 she asked. 

How was he to know where gentlemen eat their suppers 7 
Did she take him for a witch 7 Wliat, in God’s name, did 
she want with him at that hour 7 Could she not wait, at 
least, till he had done his supper 7 He warranted her pret- 
ty face would bring him home time enough. 

Constantia was not disconcerted at this address. She 


ORMOND. 


83 

knew that females are subjected, through their own ignorance 
and cowardice, to a thousand mortifications. She set its 
true value on base and low minded treatment. She dis- 
dained to notice this ribaldry, but turned away from the 
servant to meditate on this disappointment. 

A few moments after, a young fellow smartly dressed, 
entered the apartment. He was immediately addressed by 
the other, who said to him. Well, Tom, where’s your master. 
There’s a lady wants him, pointing to Constantia, and lay- 
ing a grinning emphasis on the word lady. She turned to 
the new comer : Friend, are you Mr. Craig’s servant 9 

Tlie fellow seemed somewhat irritated at the bluntness of 
her interrogatory. The appellation of servant sat uneasily, 
perhaps, on his pride, especially as coming from a person of 
her appearance. He put on an air of familiar ridicule, and 
surveyed her in silence. She resumed, in an authoritative 
tone, where does Mr. Craig spend this evening 9 I have bu- 
siness with him of the highest importance, and that will not 
bear delay. I must see him this night. — He seemed pre- 
paring to make some impertinent answer, but she anticipated 
it. You had better answer me with decency. If you do 
not, your master shall hear of it. 

This menace was not ineffectual. He began to perceive 
himself in the wrong, and surlily muttered. Why, if you must 
know, he is gone to Mr. Ormond’s. And where lived Mr. 
Ormond 9 In Arch Street ; he mentioned the number on 
her questioning him to that effect. 

Being furnished with this information, she left them. Her 
project was not to be thwarted by slight impediments, and 
she forthwith proceeded to Ormond’s dwelling. Who was 
this Ormond 9 she inquired of herself as she went along ; 
whence originated, and of what nature is the connexion be- 
tween him aifd Craig 9 Are they united by union of de- 
signs and sympathy of character, or is this stranger a new 
subject on whom Craig is practising his arts 9 The last sup- 
position is not impossible. Is it not my duty to disconcert 
his machinations, and save a new victim from his treachery 9 
But I ought to be sure before I act. He may now be hon- 
est, or tending to honesty, and my inteference may cast him 
backward, or impede his progress. 

The house to wliich she liad been directed was spacious 


ORMOND. 


84 

and magnificent. She was answered by a servant, whose 
uniform was extremely singular and fancifol, and whose fea- 
tures and accents bespoke him to be English, with a polite- 
ness to which she knew that the simplicity of her garb gave 
her no title. Craig, he told her, was in the drawing room 
above stairs. He offered to carry him any message, and 
ushured her, meanwhile, into a parlor. She w^as surprised 
at the splendor of the room. Tlie ceiling was painted with 
a gay design, the walls stuccoed in relief, and the floor cov- 
ered with a Persian carpet, with suitable accompaniments of 
mirrors, tables and sofas. 

Craig had been seated at die w^indow above. His suspi- 
cions were ever on the watch. He suddenly espied a figure 
and face on the opposite side of the street, which an altera- 
tion of garb and the improvements of time, could not conceal 
from his knowledge. He was startled at this incident, with- 
out knowing the extent of its consequences. He saw her 
cross the way opposite this house, and immediately after 
heard 'the bell ring. Still he was not aware that he himself 
was the object of this visit, and waited, with some degree of 
impatience, for the issue of tliis adventure. 

Presently he was summoned to a person below, who wish- 
ed to see him. The servant shut the door, as soon as he 
had delivered the message, and retired. 

Craig was thrown into considerable perplexity. It was 
seldom that he was wanting in presence of mind and dexter- 
ity, but the unexpectedness of this incident, made him pause. 
He had not forgotten the awful charms of his summoner. He 
shrunk at the imagination of her rebukes. What purpose 
could be answered by admitting her 9 It was, undoubtedly, 
safest to keep at a distance, but what excuse should be given 
for refusing this interview 9 He was roused from his reverie 
by a second and more urgent summons. The person could 
not conveniently wait ; her business was of the utmost mo- 
ment, and would detain him but a few minutes. 

The anxiety which was thus expressed to see him, only 
augmented liis solicitude to remain invisible. He had pa- 
pers before him which he had been employed in examining. 
This suggested an excuse. Tell her that I am engaged just 
now, and cannot possibly attend to her. Let her leave her 
business. If she has any message you may bring it to me. 


ORMOND. 


85 


It was plain to Constantia that Craig suspected the pur- 
pose of her visit. This might have come to his knowledge 
by means impossible for her to divine. She now perceived 
the wisdom of the precaution she had taken. She gave her 
letter to the servant with tliis message ; Tell him I shall wait 
here for an answer, and continue to wait till I receive one. 

Her mind was powerfully affected by the criticalness of 
her situation. She had gone tlius far, and saw the necessity 
of persisting to the end. The goal was within view, and she 
formed a sort of desperate determination not to relinquish 
the pursuit. She could not overlook the possibility that he 
might return no answer, or return an unsatisfactory one. In 
either case, she was resolved to remain in the house till driven 
from it by violence. What other resolution could she form 
To return to her desolate home, penniless, was an idea not 
to be endured. 

The letter was received, and perused. His conscience 
was touched, but compunction was a guest, whose importu- 
nities he had acquired a peculiar facility of eluding. Here 
was a liberal offer. A price was set upon his impunity. A 
small sum, perhaps, would secure him from all future moles- 
tation. — She spoke, to be sure, in a damned high tone. 
’ Twas a pity that the old man should be hungry before sup- 
per time. Blind too ! Harder still, when he cannot find liis 
way to his mouth. Rent unpaid, and a flinty-hearted land- 
lord. A pretty pickle to be sure. Instant payment she says. 
Won’t part without it. Must come down with the stuff. I 
know this girl. When her heait is once set upon a thing, all 
the devils will not turn her out of her way. She promises 
silence. I can’t pretend to bargain with her. I ’d as lief be 
ducked, as meet her face to face. I know she ’ll do what 
she promises. Tliat was always her grand failing. How 
the little witch talks ! Just the dreamer she ever w^as ! Jus- 
tice ! Compassion ! Stupid fool ! One would think she ’d 
learned something of the world by this time. 

He took out his pocket book. Among the notes it con- 
tained the lowest was fifty dollars. This was too much, yet 
tliere was no alternative, sometliing must be given. She 
had detected his abode, and he knew it was in the power of 
the Dudleys to ruin his reputation, and obstruct his present 
8 


86 


ORMOND. 


schemes. It was probable, that if they should exert them- 
selves, their cause would find advocates and patrons. Still 
the gratuitous gift of fifty dollars, sat uneasily upon his ava- 
rice. One idea occurred to reconcile him to the gift. There 
was a method he conceived of procuring the repayment of it 
vith interest. He inclosed the note in a blank piece of pa- 
per and sent it to her. 

She received the paper, and opened it with trembling fin- 
gers. When she saw what were its contents, her feelings 
amounted to rapture. A sum like this was affluence to her in 
her present condition. At least it would purchase present 
comfort and security. Her heart glowed with exultation, and 
she seemed to tread with the lightness of air, as she liied 
homeward. The langour of a long fast, the numbness of the 
cold, w^ere forgotten. It is worthy of remark how much of 
human accommodation was comprised ^vithin this small com- 
pass ; and how sudden was this transition from the verge of 
destruction to the summit of security. 

Her first business was to call upon her landlord and pay 
him his demand. On her return she discharged the little 
debts she had been obliged to contract, and purchased what 
was immediately necessary. Wood she could borrow from 
her next neighbor, and this she was willing to do, now that 
she had the prospect of repaying it. 


CHAPTER XL 

On leaving Mr. Ormond’s house, Constantia was met by 
tliat gentleman. He saw her as she came out, and was 
charmed with the simplicity of her appearance. On entering 
he interrogated die servant as to the business that brought her 
thidier. 

So, said he, as he entered the drawing-room, where Craig 
was seated, you have had a visitant. She came, it seems, 
on a pressing occasion, and w^ould be put off with nothing 
but a letter. 

Craig had not expected this address, but it only precipi- 
tated the execution of a design that he had formed. Being 
aware of this or similar accidents, he had constructed and 


ORMOND. 


87 


related on a previous occasion to Ormond, a story suitable 
to his purpose. 

Aye, said he, in a tone of affected compassion, it is a sad 
affair enough. I am sorry ’tis not in my power to help the 
poor girl. She is wi’ong in imputing her father’s misfortunes 
to me, but I know the source of her mistake. Would to 
heaven it was in my power to repair the wrongs they have 
suffered, not from me, but from one whose relationship is a 
disgrace to me. 

Perhaps, replied the other, you are willing to explain this 
affair. 

Yes, I wish to explain it. I was afraid of some such ac- 
cident as this. An explanation is due to my character. I 
have already told you my story. I mentioned to you a bro- 
ther of mine. There is scarcely tliirteen months difference in 
our ages. There is a strong resemblance between him and 
me, in our exterior, tliough I hope there is none at all in our 
minds. Tliis brother was a paitner of a gentleman, the fa- 
tlier of tliis girl, at New York. He was, a long time, nothing 
better than an apprentice to Mr. Dudley, but he advanced 
so much in the good graces of his master, that he finally took 
him into partnership. 1 did not Imow till I arrived on the 
continent, the whole of his misconduct. It appeai-s that he 
embezzled the property of the house, and fled away with it, 
and the consequence was, that his quondam master was 
ruined. I am often mistaken for my brother, to my no small 
inconvenience ; but all this I told you formerly. See what 
a letter I just now received from this girl. 

Craig was one of the most plausible of men. His char- 
acter was a standing proof of the vanity of physiognomy. 
There were few men who could refuse their confidence to 
his open and ingenuous aspect. To this circumstance, per- 
haps, he owed his ruin. His temptations to deceive were 
stronger than what are incident to most other men. Decep- 
tion was so easy a task, that the difficulty lay, not in infusing 
false opinions respecting him, but in preventing them from 
being spontaneously imbibed. He contracted habits of im- 
posture imperceptibly. In proportion as he deviated from 
the practice of truth, he discerned the necessity of extending 
and systematizing his efforts, and of augmenting the original 
benignity and attractiveness of his looks, by studied additions. 


88 


ORMOND. 


The further he proceeded, tlie more difficult it was to return. 
Experience and habit added daily to his speciousness, till at 
lentil, the world perhaps might have been seai’ched in vain 
for his competitor. 

He had been introduced to Ormond under the most favor- 
able auspices. He had provided against a danger which he 
knew to be imminent, by relating his own story as if it were 
his brother’s. He had, however, made various additions to 
it, serving to aggravate the heinousness of his guilt. This 
arose partly from policy, and partly from the habit of lying, 
which was prompted by a fertile invention, and rendered in- 
veterate by incessant exercise. He interwove in his tale, an 
intrigue between Miss Dudley and his brother. The former 
was seduced, and this man had employed liis skill in chiro- 
graphical imitation, in composing letters from Miss Dudley 
to his brother, which sufficiently attested her dishonor. He 
and his brother, he related, to have met in Jamaica, where 
the latter died, by which means his personal property and 
papers came into his possession. 

Ormond read the letter which his companion, presented to 
him on tliis occasion. The papers which Craig had formerly 
permitted him to inspect, had made hbn familiar with her 
liandwriting. The penmanship was, indeed, similar, yet 
this was written in a spirit not quite congenial with that which 
had dictated her letters to her lover. But he reflected that 
the emergency was extraordinary, and tliat the new scenes 
through which she had passed, had, perhaps, enabled her to 
retrieve her virtue and enforce it. The picture which she 
drew of her father’s distresses, affected him and his compan- 
ion very differently. He pondered on it for some time, in 
silence ; he then looked up, and with his usual abruptness 
said, I suppose you gave her something 

No. I was extremely sorry that it was not in my power. 

I have nothing but a little trifling silver about me. I have 
no more at home than will barely suffice to pay my board 
here, and my expenses to Baltimore. Till I reach tliere I 
cannot expect a supply. I was less uneasy, I confess, on 
this account, because I knew you to be equally willing and 
much more able to afford the relief slio asks. 

This, Mr. Ormond had predetermined to do. He paused 
only to deliberate in what manner it could, with most pro** 


ORMOND. 


89 


prlety, be done. He was always willing, when he conferred 
benefits, to conceal th^ autiior. He was not displeased 
when gratitude was misplaced, and readily allowed his in- 
sti'Liments to act as if they were principals. He questioned 
not tlie veracity of Craig, and was, therefore, desirous to free 
liim from the molestation that was threatened in the way 
which had been prescribed. He put a note of one hundred 
dollars into his hand, and enjoined him to send it to the Dud- 
leys that evening, or early the next morning. I am pleased, 
he added, with die style of this letter ; it can be of no ser- 
vice to you ; leave it in my possession. 

Craig would much rather have dirown it into the fii’e ; 
but he knew the character of liis companion, and was afraid 
to make any objection to his request. He promised to sen^, 
or carry die note, the next morning, before he set out on his 
intended journey. 

Tliis journey was to Baltimore, and was undertaken so 
soon merely to oblige his fi'iend, who was desirous of 
remitting to Baltimore a considerable sum in English guineas, 
and who had been for some time in search of one who 
might execute this commission widi fidelity. The offer of 
Craig had been joyfully accepted, and next morning had 
been the time fixed for his departure, a period the most 
opportune for Craig’s designs, that could be imagined. — 'To 
return to Mss Dudley. 

The sum that remained to her after the discharge of her 
debts, would quickly be expended. It was no argument of 
wisdom to lose sight of the future in tlie oblivion of present 
care. The time would inevitably come when new resources 
would be necessary. Every hour brought nearer the period 
without facilitating the discovery of new expedients. She 
related the recent adventure to her father. He acquiesced 
in the propriety of her measures, but the succor that she 
had thus obtained consoled him but little. He saw how 
speedily it would again be required, and was hopeless of a 
like fortunate occurrence. 

Some days had elapsed, and Constantia had been so 
fortunate as to procure some employment. She was thus 
engaged in the evening when they were surprised by a visit 
from their landlord. Tliis was an occurrence that forebod- 
8 * 


90 


ORMOND. 


ed them no good. He entered witli abruptness and scarce- 
ly noticed the salutations that he received. His bosom 
swelled with discontent, w^liich seemed ready to be poured 
out upon his two companions. To the inquiry as to the 
condition of his healtli and that of his family, he surlily 
answered ; never mind how I am. None the better for my 
tenants, I think. Never was a man so much plagued as I 
have been ; what with one putting me off from time to 
time. What with another quarrelling about terms, and 
denying his agreement, and anotlier running away in my 
debt, I expect nothing but to come to poverty, God help me, 
at last. But this was the worst of all. I was never before 
treated so in all my life. I don’t know what or when I shall 
get to the end of my troubles. To be fobbed out of my 
rent and twenty five dollars into tlie bargain ! It is very 
strange treatment, I assure you, Mr. Dudley. 

What is it you mean replied that gentleman. You have 
received your dues, and — 

Received my dues, indeed ! High enough too ! I have 
received none of my dues. I have been imposed upon. 

1 have been put to very great trouble and expect some com- 
pensation. There is no knowing the character of one’s 
tenants. There is nothing but knavery in tlie world, one 
would think. I ’m sure no man has suffered more by bad 
tenants than I have. But tliis is tlie strangest treatment I 
ever met with. Very strange, indeed, and Dudley, I must 
be paid without delay. To lose my rent and twenty five 
dollars into the bargain, is too hard. I never met wtith the 
equal of it, not I. Besides, I wou’dn’t be put to all tliis 
trouble for twice the sum. 

What does all this mean, Mr. M’Crea 9 You seem in- 
clined to scold, but I cannot conceive why you came here 
for that purpose. This behavior is improper — 

No, it’s very proper, and I want payment of my money. 
Fifty dollars you owe me. Miss comes to me to pay me 
my rent, as I thought. She brings me a fifty dollar note ; I 
changes it for her, for I thought to be sure, I was quite safe ; 
hut, behold, when I sends it to the bank to get the money, 
they sends me back word that it’s forged, and calls on me, 
before a magistrate to teU them where I got it from. 1 ’m 


ORMOND. 


91 


sute I never was so flustered in my life. I would not have 
such a thing for ten times the sum. 

He proceeded to descant on his loss without any interrup- 
tion from his auditors, whom this intelligence had struck 
dumb. Mr. Dudley instantly saw the origin, and full extent 
of this misfortune. He was, nevertheless, calm, and indulg- 
ed in no invectives against Craig. It is all of a piece, said 
he ; our ruin is inevitable. Well, then let it come. 

After M’Crea had railed himself weary, he flung out of 
the house, warning them that, next morning he should 
destrain for liis rent, and, at the same time, sue them for the 
money tliat Constantia had received in exchange for her 
note. Miss Dudley was unable to pursue her task. She 
laid down her needle, and fixed her eyes upon her father. 
They had been engaged in earnest discourse when their 
landlord entered. Now there was a pause of profound 
silence, till tlie affectionate Lucy, who sufficiently compre- 
hended this scene, gave vent to her affliction in sobs. Her 
mistress turned to her. 

Cheer up, my Lucy. We shall do well enough my girl. 
Our state is bad enough, without doubt, but despair will make 
it worse. 

The anxiety that occupied her mind related less to her- 
self, than to her father. He, indeed, in the present instance, 
was exposed to prosecution. It was he who was answerable 
for the debt, and whose person would be thrown into 
durance by the suit that was menaced. The horrors of a 
prison had not hitherto been experienced, or anticipated. 
The worst evil that she had imagined was inexpressibly in- 
ferior to this. The idea had in it something terrific and 
loathsome. The mere supposition of its being possible was 
not to be endured. If all other expedients should fail, she 
thought of nothing less than desperate resistance. No. It 
was better to die than to go to prison. 

For a time, she was deserted of her admirable equanimity. 
This no doubt, was the result of surprise. She had not yet 
obtained the calmness necessary to deliberation. During 
this gloomy interval, she would, perhaps, have adopted any 
scheme, however dismal and atrocious, which her father’s 
despair might suggest. She would not refuse to terminate 


92 


ORMOND. 


her own and her father’s unfortunate existence, by poison or 
the chord. 

This confusion of mind could not exist long. It gradually 
gave place to cheerful prospects. The evil perhaps was 
not without its timely remedy. The person whom she had 
set out to visit, when her course was diverted by Craig, she 
once more resolved to apply to ; to lay before him, without 
reserve, her father’s situation, to entreat pecuniary succor, 
and to offer herself as a servant in his family, or in that of 
any of his friends who stood in need of one. Tliis resolu-. 
tion, in a slight degree, consoled her ; but her mind had 
been too thoroughly disturbed to allow her any sleep during 
that night. 

She equipped herself betimes, and proceeded with a 
doubting heart to the house of Mr. Melbourne. She was 
informed that he had risen, but was never to be seen at so 
early an hour. At nine o’clock he would be disengaged, 
and she would be admitted. In the present state of her af- 
fairs, this delay was peculiarly unwelcome. At breakfast, 
her suspense and anxieties would not allow her to eat a 
morsel, and when the hour approached, she prepared her- 
self for a new attempt. 

As she went out, she met at the door a person whom she 
recognized, and whose office she knew to be that of a consta- 
ble. Constantia had exercised, in her present narrow sphere, 
that beneficence which she had formerly exerted in a larger. 
There was nothing, consistent witli her slender means, that 
she did not willingly perform for the service of others. She 
had not been sparing of consolation and personal aid in ma- 
ny cases of personal distress that had occurred in her 
neighborhood. Hence, as far as she was known, she was 
reverenced. 

The wife of their present visitant had experienced her 
succor and sympathy, on occasion of tlie death of a favorite 
child. The man, notwithstanding his office, was not of a rug- 
ged or ungrateful temper. The task that was now imposed 
upon him, he undertook with extreme reluctance. He was 
somewhat reconciled to it by the reflection that anotlier might 
not perform it with that gentleness and lenity, which he found 
in himself a disposition to. exercise on all occasions, but 
particularly on the present. 


ORMOND. 


93 

She easily guessed at his business, and having greeted him 
with the utmost friendliness, returned with him into the house. 
She endeavored to remove the embarrassment that hung 
about him, but in vain. Having levied what the law very 
properly calls a distress, he proceeded, after much hesitation, 
to inform Dudley that he was charged with a message from 
a Magistrate, summoning him to come forthwith, and account 
for having a forged bank note in his possession. 

M’Crea had given no intimation of this. The painful sur- 
prise that it produced, soon yielded to a just view^ of this af- 
fair. Temporary inconvenience and vexation was all that 
could be dreaded from it. Mr. Dudley hated to be seen or 
known. He usually walked out in the dusk of the evening, 
but limited his perambulations to a short space. At all other 
times, he was obstinately recluse. He was easily persuaded 
by his daughter to allow her to perform this unwelcome of- 
fice in his stead. He had not received, nor even seen the 
note. He would have willingly spared her the mortification 
of a judicial examination, but he knew that this was una- 
voidable. Should he comply witli this summons himself, 
his daughter’s presence would be equally necessary. 

Influenced by these considerations, he was willing tliat his 
daughter should accompany the messenger, wdio was content 
that they should consult their mutual convenience in this re- 
spect. This interview was to her, not without its terrors, 
but she cherished the hope that it might ultimately conduce 
to good. She did not foresee the means by which this would 
be effected, but her heart was lightened by a secret and in- 
explicable faith in the propitiousness of some event that was 
yet to occur. Tliis faith was powerfully enforced when she 
reached the magistrate’s door, and found that he was no other 
than Melbourne, whose succor she intended to solicit. She 
was speedily ushered, not into his office, but into a private 
apartment, where he received her alone. 

He had been favorably prepossessed with regard to her 
character by the report of the officer, who, on being charged 
with the message, had accounted for the regret which he 
manifested, by dwelling on the merits of Miss Dudley. He 
behaved with grave civility, requested her to be seated, and 
accurately scrutinized her appearance. She found hersell 
not deceived in her preconceptions of this gentleman’s cha- 


ORMOND. 


94 

racter, and drew a favorable omen as to the event of this 
interview, by what had already taken place. He viewed 
her in silence for some time, and then, in a conciliating tone, 
said. 

It seems to me, madam, as if I had seen you before. 
Your face, indeed, is of that kind which, when once seen, 
is not easily forgotten. I know it is a long time since, 
but I cannot tell when or where. If you will not deem me 
impertinent, I will venture to ask you to assist my conjec- 
tures. Your name as I am informed, is Acworth. — I ought 
to have mentioned that Mr. Dudley on his removal from 
New York, among other expedients to obliterate the memo- 
ry of his former condition, and conceal his poverty from the 
world, had made this change in his name. 

That, indeed, said the lady, is the name, which my father, 
at present, bears. His real name is Dudley. His abode 
was formerly in Queen Street, New York. Your conjec- 
ture, Sir, is not erroneous. This is not tlie first time we 
have seen each other. I well recollect your having been at 
my father’s house in the days of his prosperity. 

Is it possible*? exclaimed Mr. Melbourne, starting from 
his seat in the first impulse of his astonishment. Are you 
the daughter of my friend Dudley, by whom I have so often 
been hospitably entertained. I have heard of his misfor- 
tunes, but knew not that he was alive, or in what part of the 
world he resided. 

You are summoned on a very disagreeable afiair, but I 
doubt not, you will easily exculpate your father. I am 
told that he is blind, and that his situation is by no means 
as comfortable as might be wished. I am grieved that he 
did not confide in the friendship of those that knew him. 
What could prompt him to conceal himself*? 

My father has a proud spirit. It is not yet broken by 
adversity. He disdains to beg, but I must now assume that 
office for his sake. I came hither this morning to lay before 
you his situation, and to intreat your assistance to save him 
from a prison. He cannot pay for the poor tenement he oc- 
cupies, and our few goods are already under distress. He 
has, likewise, contracted a debt. He is, I suppose, already 
sued on this account, and must go to gaol unless saved by 
the interposition of some friend. 


ORMOND. 


95 

It is true, said Melbourne, I yesterday granted a warrant 
against him at the suit of Malcolm M’Crea. Little did I 
think that the defendant was Stephen Dudley ; but you may 
dismiss all apprehensions on that score. That afeir shall 
be settled to your father’s satisfaction. Meanwhile, we will, 
if you please, despatch this unpleasant business respecting 
a counterfeit note, received in payment from you by this 
M’Crea. 

Miss Dudley satisfactorily explained that affair. She 
stated the relation in which Craig had formerly stood to her 
father, and the acts of which he had been guilty. She 
slightly touched on the distresses which the family had un- 
dergone during their abode in this city, and the means by 
which she had been able to preserve her father from want. 
She mentioned the circumstances which compelled her to 
seek his charity as the last resource, and the casual encount- 
er with Craig, by which" she was for the present diverted 
from that design. She laid before him a copy of the letter 
she had written, and explained the result in the gift of the 
note which now appeared to be a counterfeit. She conclud- 
ed with stating her present views, and soliciting him to re- 
ceive her into his family, in quality of servant, or use his 
interest with some of his friends to procure a provision of 
this kind. This tale was calculated deeply to affect a man 
of Mr. Melbourne’s humanity. 

No, said he, I cannot listen to such a request. My in- 
clination is bounded by my means. These will not allow me 
to place you in an independent situation ; but I will do what 
I can. With your leave, I will introduce you to my wife, in 
your true character. Her good sense will teach her to set a 
just value on your friendship. There is no disgrace in 
earning your subsistence by your own industry. She and 
her friends will furnish you with plenty of materials, but if 
there ever be a deficiency, look to me for a supply. 

Coristantia’s heart overflowed at this declaration. Her 
silence was more eloquent than any words could have been. 
She declined an immediate introduction to his wife, and with- 
drew, but not till her new friend had forced her to accept 
some money. 

Place it to account, said he. It is merely paying you 


ORMOND. 


96 

before hand, and discharging a debt at the time when it 
happens to be most useful to the creditor. 

To what entire and incredible reverses is the tenor of 
human life subject. A short minute shall effect a transition 
from a state utterly destitute of hope, to a condition where 
all is serene and abundant. The path, which we employ 
all our exertions to shun, is often found, upon trial, to be the 
true road to prosperity. 

Constantia retired from this interview with a heart bound- 
ing with exultation. She related to her father all that had 
happened. He was pleased on her account, but the detec- 
tion of his poverty by Melbourne was the parent of new 
mortification. His only remaining hope relative to himself, 
was that he should die in his obscurity, whereas, it was 
probable that his old acquaintance would trace him to his 
covert. This prognostic filled Imi with the deepest in- 
quietude, and all the reasonings ot his daughter were in- 
sufficient to appease him. 

Melbourne made his appearance in the afternoon. He 
w^as introduced, by Constantia, to her father. Mr. Dudley’s 
figure was emaciated, and his features corroded by his 
ceaseless melancholy. His blindness produced in tliem a 
woeful and wildering expression. His dress betokened his 
penury, and was in unison with the meanness of his habita- 
tion and furniture. The visitant was struck with the melan- 
choly contrast, which these appearances exhibited, to tlie 
joyousness and splendor that he had formerly witnessed. 

Mr. Dudley received the salutations of his guest with an 
air of embarrassment and dejection. He resigned to his 
daughter the task of sustaining tlie conversation, and excused 
himself from complying with the urgent invitations of 
Melbourne, while at the same time, he studiously forbore all 
expressions tending to encourage any kind of intercourse 
between them. 

The guest came with a message from his w ife, who in- 
treated Miss Dudley’s company to tea with her that evening, 
adding that she should be entirely alone. It was impossi- 
ble to refuse compliance with tliis request. She cheerfully 
assented, and, in the evening, was introduced to Mrs. Mel- 
bourne, by her husband. 


ORMOND. 


97 


Constantia found in tliis lady nothing that called for reve- 
rence or admiration, though she could not deny her some 
portion of esteem. The impression which her own ap- 
pearance and conversation made upon her entertainer, was 
much more powerful and favorable. A consciousness of 
her own worth, and disdain of the malevolence of fortune, 
perpetually shone forth in her behavior. It was modelled 
by a sort of mean between presumption on the one hand, 
and humility on the other. She claimed no more than what 
w'as justly due to her, but she claimed no less. She did 
not soothe our vanity nor fascinate our pity by diffident re- 
serves and flutterings. Neither did she disgust by arrogant 
negligence, and uncircumspect loquacity. 

At parting, she received commissions in the way of her 
profession, wffiich supplied her with abundant and profitable 
employment. She abri^ed her visit on her father’s account, 
and parted from her new friend just early enough to avoid 
meeting with Ormond, who entered the house a few minutes 
after she had left it. 

What pity, said Melbourne to him, you did not come a 
little sooner. You pretend to be a judge of beauty. I 
should like to havj heard your opinion of a face that has 
just left us. 

Describe it, said the other. 

That is beyond my capacity. Complexion, and hair, 
and eyebrows may be painted, but these are of no gTeat 
value in the present case. It is in the putting them togetlier, 
that nature has here shewn her skill, and not in the structure 
of each of the parts, individually considered. Perhaps you 
may at some time meet each other here. If a lofty fellow 
' like you, now, would mix a little common sense with his 
science, this girl might hope for a husband, and her father 
for a natural protector. 

Are tliey in search of one or the other 

I cannot say they are. Nay, I imagine they would beai* 
any imputation with more patience than that, but certain I 
am, they stand in need of them. How much would it be 
to the honor of a man like you rioting in wealth, to divide 
it with one, lovely and accomplished as this girl is, and 
struggling with indigence. 

9 


08 


ORMOND. 


Melbourne then related the adventure of the morning. 
It was easy for Ch’mond to perceive that this was the same 
person of whom he already had some knowledge — but 
there were some particulars in the narrative that excited 
surprise. A note had been received from Craig, at the 
first visit in the evening, and this note was for no more than 
fifty dollars. This did not exactly tally with the information 
received from Craig. But tliis note was forged. Might 
not this girl mix a little imposture with her truth Who 
knows her temptations to hypocrisy It might have 
been a present from another quarter, and accompanied with 
no very honorable conditions. Exquisite wretch ! Those 
whom honesty will not let live, must be knaves. Such is 
the alternative offered by the wisdom of society. 

He listened to the tale with apparent indifference. He 
speedily shifted the conversation to new topics, and put an 
end to his visit sooner than ordinary. 


CHAPTER XII. 

I KNOW no task more arduous than a just delineation of 
the character of Ormond. To scrutinize and ascertain our 
own principles are abundantly difficult. To exhibit these 
principles to the world with absolute sincerity, can scarcely 
be expected. We are prompted to conceal and to feign by 
a thousand motives ; but truly to portray tfie motives, and 
relate the actions of another, appears utterly impossible. 
Tlie attempt, however, if made with fidelity and diligence, 
is not without its use. 

To comprehend the whole truth, with regard to the 
character and conduct of another, may be denied to any 
human being, but different observers will have, in their pic- 
tures, a greater or less portion of tliis truth. No represen- 
tation will be wholly false, and some though not perfectly, 
may yet be considerably exempt from error. 

Ormond w^as, of all mankind, the being most difficult and 
most deserving to be studied. A fortunate concurrence of 
incidents has unveiled his actions to me with more distinct- 
ness than to any other. My knowledge is far from being 


ORMOND. 


99 


absolute, but I am conscious of a kind of duty, first to my 
friend, and secondly to mankind, to impart the knowledge I 
possess. 

I shall omit to mention the means by which I became 
acquainted with his character, nor shall I enter, at this time, 
into every part of it. His political projects are likely to 
possess an extensive influence on the future condition of this 
western world. I do not conceive myself authorized to 
communicate a knowledge of his schemes, which I gained, 
in some sort, surreptitiously, or at least, by means of which 
he was not apprized. I shall merely explain the maxims 
by which he was accustomed to regulate his private deport- 
ment. 

No one could entertain loftier conceptions of human 
capacity than Ormond, but he carefully distinguished between 
men, in the abstract, and men as they are. The former 
were beings to be impelled, by the breath of accident, in a 
right or a wn*ong road, but whatever direction they should 
receive, it was the property of their nature to persist in it. 
Now this impulse had been given. No single being could 
rectify the error. It was the business of the wise man to 
form a just estimate of things, but not to attempt, by indi- 
vidual efforts, so chimerical an enterprise as that of promot- 
ing the happiness of mankind. Their condition was out 
of the reach of a member of a corrupt society to control. 
A mortal poison pervaded the whole system, by means of 
wliich every thing received was converted into bane and 
purulence. Efforts designed to amefior^te the condition of 
an individual, were sure of answering a contrary purpose. 
The principles of the social machine must be rectified, be- 
fore men can be beneficially active. Our motives may be 
neutral or beneficent, but our actions tend merely to the 
production of eviL % 

Tlie idea of total forbearance was not less delusive. Man 
could not be otherwise than a cause of perpetual operation 
and efficacy. He was part of a machine, and as such had 
not power to withhold his agency. Contiguousness to other 
parts, that is, to other men, was all that was necessary to ren- 
der him a powerful concurrent. What then was the conduct 
incumbent on him Whether lie went forward, or stood 
still, whether his motives were malignant, or kind, or indiffer- 


100 


ORMOND. 


ent, the mass of evil was equally and necessaiily augmented. 
It did not follow from these preliminaries that virtue and 
duty were terms without a meaning, but they require us to 
promote our own happiness and not the happiness of others. 
Not because the former end is intrinsically preferable, not 
because the happiness of others is unworthy of primary 
consideration, but because it is not to be attained. Our 
power in the present state of things is subjected to certain 
limits. A man may reasonably hope to accomplish his end, 
when he proposes nothing but his own good. Any other 
point is inaccessible. 

He must not part with benevolent desire ; this is a con- 
stituent of happiness. He sees the value of general and 
particular felicity; he sometimes paints it to his fancy, but 
if this be rarely done, it is in consequence of virtuous sen- 
sibility, which is afflicted on observing that his pictures are 
reversed in the real state of mankind. A wise man will 
relinquish the pursuit of general benefit, but not tlie desire 
of that benefit, or tlie preception of that in wliich tliis bene- 
fit consists, because these are among the ingredients of virtue 
and the sources of his happiness. 

Principles, in the looser sense of that term, have little 
influence on practice. Ormond was, for the most part, gov- 
erned, like others, by the influences of education and present 
circumstances. It required a vigilant discernment to distin- 
guish whether the stream of his actions flowed from one or 
the otlier. His income was large, and he managed it near- 
ly on the same principles as otlier men. He thought him- 
self entitled to all the splendor and ease wliich it would 
purchase, but his taste was elaborate and correct. He grati- 
fied his love of the beautiful, because tlie sensations it af- 
forded were pleasing, but made no sacrifices to the love of 
distinction. He gave no expensive entertainments for the 
sake of exciting the admiration of stupid gazers, or the flat- 
tery or envy of those who shared tliem. Pompous equip- 
age and retinue were modes of appropriating the esteem of 
mankind which he held in profound contempt. The garb 
of his attendants was fashioned after tlie model suggested 
by his imagination, and not in compliance with the dictates 
of custom. 

He treated with systematic negligence, the etiquette that 


ORMOND. 


101 


regulates the intercourse of persons of a certain class. He, 
every where, acted, in this respect, as if he were alone, or 
among familiar associates. Tlie very appellations of Sir, 
and Madam, and Mister, were, in his apprehension, seiTile 
and ridiculous, and as custom or law had annexed no pen- 
alty to the neglect of these, he conformed to his own opin- 
ions. It was easier for him to reduce his notions of equality 
to practice than for most others. To level himself witli 
others was an act of condescension and not of arrogance. 
It was requisite to descend radier than to rise ; a task the 
most easy, if we regard the obstacles flowing from the preju- 
dice of mankind, but far most difficult, if the motives of the 
agent be considered. 

Tliat in which he chiefly placed his boast, was his sinceri- 
ty. To this he refused no sacrifice. In consequence of 
this, liis deportment was disgusting to weak minds, by a 
certain air of ferocity and haughty negligence. He was 
without the attractions of candor, because he regarded not 
the happiness of others, but in subservience to bis sincerity. 
Hence it was natural to suppose that the character of this 
man was easily understood. He affected to conceal nothing. 
No one appeared more exempt from the instigations of van- 
ity. He set light by the good opinions of otliers, had no 
compassion for their prejudices, and hazarded assertions in 
theii’ presence which he knew would be, in the highest de- 
gree, shocking to their previous notions. They might take 
it, he would say, as they list. Such were his conceptions, 
and the last thing he would give up was the use of his tongue. 
It was his way to give utterance to the suggestions of his 
understanding. If they were disadvantageous to him in the 
opinions of others, it was well. He did not wish to be re- 
garded in any light, but tbe true one. He was contented 
to be rated by the world, at his just value. If they esteemed 
him for qualities he did not possess, was he wrong in recti- 
fying their mistake; but in reality, if they valued him for 
tliat to which he had no claim, and which he himself con- 
sidered as contemptible, he must naturally desire to shew 
them their error, and forfeit that praise which, in his own 
opinion, was a badge of infamy. 

In listening to liis discourse, no one’s cl^im to sincerity 


10*2 


ORMOND. 


appeared less questionable. A somewhat different conclu- 
sion would be suggested by a survey of his actions. In 
early youth he discovered in himself a remarkable facility in 
imitating the voice and gestures of others. His memory 
was eminently retentive, and these qualities would have ren- 
dered his career, in the theatrical profession, illustrious, had 
not liis condition raised him above it. His talents were 
occasionally exerted for the entertainment of convivial par- 
ties, and private circles, but he gradually withdrew from 
such scenes, as he advanced in age, and devoted his abilities 
to higher purposes. 

His aversion to duplicity had flowed from experience of 
its evils. He had frequently been made its victim ; in 
consequence of tliis liis temper had become suspicious, 
and he was apt to impute deceit on occasions when others, 
of no inconsiderable sagacity, were abundantly disposed to 
confidence. One transaction had occun’ed in his life, in 
which the consequences of being misled by false appear- 
ances were of the utmost moment to his honor and safe- 
ty. The usual mode of solving liis doubts, he deemed in- 
sufficient, and the eagerness of his curiosity tempted him, 
for the first time, to employ, for tliis end, his talents at imita- 
tion. He therefore assumed a borrowed character and guise, 
and performed his part with so much skill as fully to accom- 
plish his design. He whose mask would have secured him 
from all other attempts, was thus taken through an avenue 
which his caution had overlooked, and the hypocrisy of his 
pretensions unquestionably ascertained. 

Perhaps, in a comprehensive view, the success of tliis 
expedient was unfortunate. It served to recommend this 
method of encountering deceit, and informed him of the ex- 
tent of tliose powers wliich are so liable to be abused. A 
subtlety much inferior to Ormond’s would suffice to recom- 
mend this mode of action. It was defensible on no other 
principle tlian necessity. The treachery of mankind compel- 
led him to resort to it. If they should deal in a manner as 
upright and explicit as himself, it would be superfluous. But 
since they were in the perpetual use of stratagems and arti- 
fices, it was allowable, he thought, to wield the same arms. 

It was easy to perceive, however, that this practice was 
recommended to him by other considerations. He was de- 


ORMOND. 


103 


lighted with tlie power it conferred. It enabled him to gain 
access, as if by supernatural means, to the privacy of otliers, 
and baffle their profoundest contrivances to hide themselves 
from his view. It flattered him with the possession of some- 
tiling like omniscience. It was besides an art, in which, as 
in others, every accession of skill, was a source of new 
gratification. Compared with tliis the performance of the 
actor is the sport of cliildren. This profession he was ac- 
customed to treat with merciless ridicule, and no doubt, some 
of his contempt arose from a secret comparison, between 
the theatrical species of imitation and his own. He blended 
in liis own person tlie functions of poet and actor, and his 
dramas were not fictitious but real. The end that he pro- 
posed was not the amusement of a playhouse mob. His 
were scenes in which hope and fear exercised a genuine 
influence, and in which was maintained that resemblance 
to truth, so audaciously and grossly violated on the stage. 

It is obvious how many singular conjunctures must have 
grown out of this propensity. A mind of uncommon energy 
like Ormond’s, which had occupied a wide sphere of action, 
and wliich could not fail of confederating its efibrts witli those 
of minds like itself, must have given birth to innumerable in- 
cidents, not unworthy to be exhibited by the most eloquent 
liistorian. It is not my business to relate any of these. The 
fate of Miss Dudley is intimately connected with his. What 
influence he obtained over her destiny, in consequence of 
this dexterity, will appear in the sequel. 

It arose from these circumstances, tliat no one was more 
impenetrable than Ormond, though no one’s real character 
seemed more easily discerned. The projects that occupied 
liis attention were diftlised over an ample space ; and his in- 
struments and coadjutors were culled from a field, whose 
bounds were those of the civilized world. To the vulgar 
eye, therefore, he appeared a man of speculation and seclu- 
sion, apd was equally inscrutible in his real and assumed 
characters. In his real, his intents were too lofty and com- 
prehensive, as well as too assiduously shrouded from profane 
inspection, for tliem to scan. In the latter, appearances 
were merely calculated to mislead and not to enlighten. 

In his youth he had been guilty of the usual excesses in- 
cident to his age and character. These had disappeared 


104 


ORMONt). 


and yielded place to a more regular and circumspect system 
of action. In the choice of his pleasures he still exposed 
himself to the censure of the world. Yet there was more of 
grossness and licentiousness in the expression of his tenets, 
Shan in the tenets themselves. So far as temperance regards 
the maintenance of health, no man adhered to its precepts 
with more fidelity, but he esteemed some species of connex- 
ion with the other sex as venial, which mankind in general 
are vehement in condemning. 

In liis intercourse with women, he deemed himself supe- 
rior to the allurements of what is called love. His infer- 
ences were drawn from a consideration of the physical pro- 
pensities of a human being. In his scale of enjoyments the 
gratifications which belonged to these, were placed at the 
bottom. Yet he did not entirely disdain them, and when 
they could be purchased without the sacrifice of superior 
advantages, they were sufficiently acceptable. 

His mistake on this head was the result of his ignorance. 
He had not hitherto met with a female worthy of his confi- 
dence. Their views were limited and superficial, or their 
understandings were betrayed by the tenderness of their 
hearts. He found in them no intellectual energy, no supe- 
riority to what he accounted vulgar prejudice, and no affinity 
with the sentiments wb'ch he cherished with most devotion. 
Their presence had been capable of exciting no emotion 
which he did not quickly discover to be vague and sensual ; 
and the uniformity of his experience at length instilled into 
him a belief, that the intellectual constitution of females was 
essentially defective. He denied the reality of that passion 
which claimed a similitude or sympathy of minds as one of 
its ingredients. 


CHAPTER Xm. 

He resided in New York some time before he took up his 
abode in Philadelphia. He had some pecuniary concerns 
with a merchant of that place. He occasionally frequented 
his house, finding, in the society which it afforded him, scope 
for amusing speculation, and opportunities of gaining a spe- 
cies of knowledge of which at that time he stood in need. 


ORMOND. 105 

There was one daughter of the family who of course consti- 
tuted a member of the domestic circle. 

Helena Cleves was endowed with every feminine and 
fascinating quality. Her features were modified by the most 
transient sentiments and were the seat of a softness at all 
times blushful and bewitching. All those graces of symme- 
try, smoothness and lustre, which assemble in the imagina- 
tion of the painter when he calls from tlie bosom of her na- 
tal deep, the Paphian divinity, blended their perfections in the 
shade, complexion, and hair of this lady. Her voice was 
naturally tlirilling and melodious, and her utterance clear 
and distinct. A musical education had added to all these 
advantages the improvements of art, and no one could swim 
in the dance with such airy and transporting elegance. 

It is obvious to inquire whether her mental, were, in any de- 
gree, on a level with her exterior accomplishments. Should 
you listen to her talk, you would be liable to be deceived in 
this respect. Her utterance was so just, her phrases so hap- 
py, and her language so copious and correct, that the hearer 
was apt to be impressed with an ardent veneration of her 
abilities, but the truth is, she was calculated to excite emo- 
tions more voluptuous than dignified. Her presence pro- 
duced a trance of the senses rather than an illumination of 
the soul. It was a topic of wonder how she should have so 
carefully separated the husk from the kernel, and be so ab- 
solute a mistress of the vehicle of knowledge, with so slender 
means of supplying it ; yet it is difficult to Judge but from 
comparison. To say ffiat Helena Cleves was silly or igno- 
rant would be hatefully unjust. Her understanding bore no 
disadvantageous comparison with that of the majority of her 
sex, but when placed in competition with that of some emi- 
nent females or of Ormond, it was exposed to the risk of 
contempt. 

This lady and Ormond were exposed to mutual examina- 
tion. The latter was not unaffected by the radiance that 
environed this girl, but her true character was easily discov- 
ered, and he was accustomed to regard her merely as an 
object charming to the senses. His attention to her was 
dictated by this principle. When she sung or talked, it was 
not unwortliy of the strongest mind to be captivated with her 
music and her elocution ; but these were the limits which he 


ORMOND. 


106 

set to his gratifications. That sensations of a different kind, 
never ruffled his tranquillity must not be supposed, but he too 
accurately estimated their consequences to permit himself to 
indulge them. 

Unhappily the lady did not exercise equal fortitude. Dur- 
ing a certain interval Ormond’s visits were frequent, and she 
insensibly contracted for liim somewhat more than reverence. 
The tenor of his discourse was little adapted to cherish her 
hopes. In the declaration of his opinions he was never with- 
held by scruples of decorum, or a selfish regard to his own 
interest. His matrimonial tenets were harsh and repulsive. 
A woman of keener penetration would have predicted from 
them, the disappointment of her wishes, but Helena’s mind 
was uninured to the discussion of logical points and the 
tracing of remote consequences. His presence inspired feel- 
ings which would not permit her to bestow an impartial at- 
tention on his arguments. It is not enough to say that his 
reasonings failed to convince her ; the combined influence 
of passion and an unenlightened understanding hindered her 
from fully comprehending them. All she gathered was a 
vague conception of something magnificent and vast in his 
character. 

Helena was destined to experience the vicissitudes of for- 
tune. Her father died suddenly and left her without pro- 
vision. She was compelled to accept the invitations of a 
kinswoman, and live, in some sort, a life of dependence. She 
was not qualified to sustain this reverse of fortune, in a grace- 
ful manner. She could not bear tlie diminution of her cus- 
tomary indulgences, and to these privations were added the 
inquietudes of a passion, which now began to look with an 
aspect of hopelessness. 

Tliese events happened in the absence of Ormond. On 
his return he made himself acquainted witli diem. He saw 
the extent of this misfortune to a woman of Helena’s char- 
acter, but knew not in what manner it might be effectually 
obviated. He esteemed it incumbent on him to pay her a 
visit in her new abode. This token at least of respect or 
remembrance his duty appeared to prescribe. 

This visit was unexpected by the lady. Surprise is the 
enemy of concealment. She was oppressed with a sense of 
her desolate situation. She was sitting in her own apart- 


I 


ORMOND. 


107 

ment in a museful posture. Her fancy was occupied with 
the image of Ormond, and her tears were flowing at tlie 
thought of their eternal separaflon, when he entered softly 
and unperceived by her. A tap upon tlie shoulder was the 
first signal of his presence. So critical an interview could 
not fail of unveiling the true state of the lady’s heart. Or- 
mond’s suspicions were excited, and these suspicions speedily 
led to an explanation. 

Ormond retired to ruminate on this discovery. I have 
already mentioned his sentiments respecting love. His feel- 
ings relative to Helena did not contradict his principles, yet 
the image which had formerly been exquisite in loveliness, 
had now suddenly gained unspeakable attractions. This 
discovery had set the question in a new light. It was of suf- 
ficient importance to make him deliberate. He reasoned 
somewhat in the following manner. 

Marriage is absurd. This flows from the general and in- 
curable imperfection of the female character. No woman 
can possess that worth which would induce me to enter into 
this contract, and bind myself, without power of revoking 
the decree, to her society. This opinion may possibly be 
erroneous, but it is undoubtedly true with respect to Helena, 
and the uncertainty of the position in general, will increase 
the necessity of caution in the present case. That woman 
may exist whom I should not fear to espouse. This is not 
her. Some accident may cause our meeting. Shall I then 
disable myself, by an irrevocable obligation, from profiting 
by so auspicious an occurrence ^ 

This girl’s society was to be enjoyed in one of two ways. 
Should he consult his inclination there was little room for 
doubt. He had never met with one more highly qualified 
for that species of intercourse which he esteemed rational. 
No man more abhorred the votaries of licentiousness. Noth- 
ing was more detestable to him than a mercenary alliance. 
Personal fidelity and the existence of that passion, of which 
he had, in the present case, the good fortune to be the ob- 
ject, were indispensable in his scheme. The union was in- 
debted for its value on the voluntariness with w'hich it was 
formed, and the entire acquiescence of the judgment of both 
parties in its rectitude. Dissimulation and artifice were 
w'holly foreign to the success of his project. If the lady 


108 


ORMOND. 


thought proper to assent to his proposal, it was well. She 
did so because assent was more eligible than refusal. 

She would, no doubt, prefer marriage. She would deem 
it more conducive to happiness. This was an error. This 
was an opinion, his reasons for which he was at liberty to 
state to her ; at least it was justifiable in refusing to subject 
himself to loathsome and impracticable obligations. Cer- 
tain inconveniences attended women who set aside, on these 
occasions, the sanction of law, but these were imaginary. 
They owed their force to the errors of the sufferer. To 
annihilate them, it was only necessary to reason justly, but 
allowing these inconveniences tlieir full weight and an inde- 
structable existence, it was but a choice of evils. Were they 
worse in this lady’s apprehension, tlian an eternal and hope- 
less separation 9 Perhaps tliey were. If so, she would 
make her election accordingly. He did nothing but lay the 
conditions before her. If his scheme should obtain the con- 
currence of her unbiassed judgment he should rejoice. If 
not, her conduct should be uninfluenced by liim. Whatev- 
er way she should decide, he would assist her in adhering to 
her decision, but would, meanwhile, furnish her with the 
materials of a right decision. 

This determination was singular. Many wiD regard it as 
incredible. No man, it will be thought, can put this decep- 
tion on himself, and imagine that there was genuine benefi- 
cence in a scheme like tliis. Would the lady more consult 
her happiness by adopting than by rejecting it 9 There can 
be but one answer. It cannot be supposed that Ormond, in 
stating this proposal, acted witli ^all the impartiality that he 
pretended ; that he did not employ fallacious exaggerations 
and ambiguous expedients ; that he did not seize every op- 
portunity of triumphing over her weakness, and building his 
success rather on the illusions of her heart than the con- 
victions of her understanding. His conclusions were spe- 
cious but delusive, and were not uninfluenced by improper 
biasses ; but of this he himself was scarcely conscious, and it 
must be, at least, admitted that he acted with scrupulous 
sincerity. 

An uncommon degree of skill was required to introduce 
this topic so as to avoid the imputation of an insult. This 
scheme was little in unison with all her preconceived notions. 


ORMOND. 


109 

No doubt, the irksomeness of her present situation, the allure- 
ments of luxury and ease, which Ormond had to bestow, 
and the revival of her ancient independence and security, 
had some share in dictating her assent. 

Her concurrence was by no means cordial and unhesi- 
tating. Remorse and the sense of dishonor pursued her to her 
retreat, though chosen with a view of shunning their intru- 
sions, and it was only when the reasonings and blandishments 
of her lover were exhibited, that she was lulled into tempo- 
rary tranquillity. 

She removed to Pliiladelphia. Here she enjoyed all the 
consolations of opulence. She was mistress of a small but 
elegant mansion. She possessed all the means of solitary 
amusement, and frequently enjoyed the company of Ormond. 
These however were insufficient to render her happy. Cer- 
tain reflections might, for a time, be repressed or divested 
of their sting, but tliey insinuated themselves at every inter- 
val, and imparted to her mind, a hue of dejection from which 
she could not entirely relieve herself. 

She endeavored to acquire a relish for the pursuits of 
literature, by which her lonely hours might be cheered ; but 
of this, even in the blithesonieness and serenity of her for- 
mer days, she was incapable. Much more so now when 
she was the prey of perpetual inquietude. Ormond perceiv- 
ed tliis change, not without uneasiness. All his efforts to 
reconcile her to her present situation were fruitless. They 
produced a momentary effect upon her. The softness of 
her temper and her attachment to him, would, at his bid- 
ding, restore her to vivacity and ease, but the illumination 
seldom endured longer than his presence, and the novelty of 
some amusement which he had furnished her. 

At his next visit, perhaps, he would find that a new task 
awaited him. She indulged herself in no recriminations or 
invectives. She could not complain tliat her lover had de- 
ceived her. She had voluntarily and deliberately accepted 
tlie conditions prescribed. She regarded her own disposi- 
tion to repine as a species of injustice. She laid no claim to 
an increase of tenderness. She hinted not a wish for a 
change of situation; yet she was unhappy. Tears stole into 
her eyes, and her tlioughts wandered into gloomy reverie, at 
10 


110 


ORMOND. 


moments when least aw^are of their reproach, and least will- 
ing to indulge them. 

Was a change to be desired*? Yes; provided that 
change was equally agreeable to Ormond, and should be 
seriously proposed by him, of this she had no hope. As 
long as his accents rung in her ears, she even doubted whe- 
ther it were to be wished. At any rate, it was impossible 
to gain his approbation to it. Her destiny was fixed. It 
was better than tlie cessation of all intercourse, yet her heart 
was a stranger to all permanent tranquillity. 

Her manners were artless and ingenuous. In company 
with Ormond her heart w^as perfectly unveiled. He was her 
divmity to whom every sentiment was visible, and to whom 
she spontaneously uttered what she thought, because the 
employment was pleasing ; because he listened with appa- 
rent satisfaction; and because, in fine, it was the same thing 
to speak and to think in his presence. Tliere w^as no in- 
ducement to conceal from him the most evanescent and fu- 
gitive ideas. 

Ormond w^as not an inattentive or indifferent spectator of 
those appearances. His friend wras unhappy. She shrunk 
aghast from her own reproaches and the contumelies of the 
wwld. This morbid sensibility he had endeavored to cure, 
but hitherto in vain. What was the amount of her unhappi- 
ness*? Her spirits had formerly been gay, but her gaiety 
was capable of yielding place to soul-ravishing and solemn 
tenderness. Her sedateness was, at those times, the off- 
spring not of reflection but of passion. There still remain- 
ed much of her former self. He was seldom permitted to 
witness more than the traces of sorrow. In answ er to his 
inquiries, she, for the most part, described sensations that 
were gone, and which she flattered herself and him would 
never return ; but this hope was always doomed to disap- 
pointment. Solitude infallibly conjured up the ghost which 
had been laid, and it was plain that argument was no ade- 
quate remedy for this disease. 

How far would time alleviate its evils *? When the novelty 
of her condition should disappear, would she not regard it 
with other eyes *? By being familiar with contempt, it will 
lose its sting ; but is that to be wished ? Must not the charac- 
ter be thoroughly depraved before the scorn of our neighbors 


ORMOND. 


Ill 


shall become indifferent Indifference, flowing from a sense 
of justice, and a persuasion that our treatment is unmerited, 
is characteristic of the noblest minds, but indifference to ob- 
loquy, because we are habituated to it, is a token of peculiar 
baseness. This therefore was a remedy to be ardently de- 
precated. 

He had egregiously overrated the influence of truth and 
his own influence. He had hoped that his victory was per- 
manent. In order to the success of truth, he was apt to 
imagine, that nothing was needful but opportunities for a 
complete exhibition of it. They that inquire and reason 
with sufficient deliberateness and caution, must inevitably 
accomplish their end. These maxims were confuted in the 
present case. He had formed no advantageous conceptions 
of Helena’s capacity. His aversion to matrimony arose from 
those conceptions, but experience had shown him that his 
conclusions, unfavorable as they were, had fallen short of 
the truth. Convictions, which he had conceived her mind 
to be sufficiently strong to receive and retain, were proved 
to have made no other, than a momentary impression. 
Hence liis objections to ally himself to a mind inferior to his 
own were strengthened rather than diminished. But he 
could not endure the thought of being instrumental to her 
misery. 

Marriage was an efficacious remedy, but he could not as 
yet bring himself to regard the aptitude of this cure as a sub- 
ject of doubt. Tile idea of separation sometimes occurred 
to him. He was not unapprehensive of the influence of 
time and absence, in curing the most vehement passion, but 
to this expedient the lady could not be reconciled. He 
knew her too well to believe that she would willingly adopt 
it. But the only obstacle to this scheme did not flow from 
the lady’s opposition. He would probably have found upon 
experiment as strong an aversion to adopt it in himself as 
in her. 

It was easy to see tlie motives by which he would be like- 
ly to be swayed into a change of principles. If marriage 
were the only remedy, the frequent repetition of this truth 
must bring him insensibly to doubt the rectitude of his de- 
terminations against it. He deeply reflected on the conse- 
quences which marriage involves. He scrutinized with the 


112 


ORMOND. 


utmost accuracy, the character of his friend, and surveyed 
it in all its parts. Inclination could not fail of having some 
influence on his opinions. Tlie charms of this favorite ob- 
ject tended to impair the clearness of his view, and extenu- 
ate or conceal her defects. He entered on the enumeration 
of her errors witli reluctance. Her happiness had it been 
wholly disconnected with his own, might have had less 
weight in the balance, but now, every time the scales were 
suspended, this consideration acquired new weight. 

Most men are influenced, in the formation of this contract, 
by regards purely physical. They are incapable of higher 
views. They regard with indifference every tie that binds 
them to their contemporaries, or to posterity. Mind has no 
part in the motives that guide them. They choose a wife 
as they choose any household moveable, and when the irri- 
tation of the senses has subsided, the attachment that remains 
is the offspring of habit. 

Such were not Ormond’s modes of thinldng. His creed 
was of too extraordinaiy a kind not to merit explication. 
The terms of this contract were, in his eyes, iniquitous and 
absurd. He could not think with patience of a promise 
which no time could annul, which pretended to ascertain 
contingences and regulate the future. To forego the liberty 
of choosing his companion, and bind himself to associate 
with one whom he despised, to raise to his own level one 
whom nature had irretrievably degraded ; to avow, and 
persist in his adherence to a falsehood, palpable and loath- 
some to his understanding ; to affirm that he was blind, when 
in full possession of his senses ; to shut his eyes and grope 
in the dark, and call upon the compassion of mankind on his 
infirmity, when his organs were, in no degree, impaired, and 
the scene around him was luminous and beautiful, was an 
height of infatuation that he could never attain. And why 
should he be thus self-degraded Why should he take a 
laborious circuit to reach a point which, when attained, was 
trivial, and to which reason had pointed out a road short and 
direct 9 

A wife is generally nothing more than a household super- 
intendent. This function could not be more wisely vested 
than it was at present. Every thing, in his domestic system, 
was fasliioned on strict and inflexible principles. He want- 

■1 


ORMOND. 


113 


ed instruments and not partakers of his authority. One 
whose mind was equal and not superior to the cogent appre- 
hension and punctual performance of his will. One whose 
character was squared, with mathematical exactness, to his 
situation. Helena, with all her faults, did not merit to be 
regarded in this light. Her introduction would destroy the 
harmony of his scheme, and be, with respect to herself, a 
genuine debasement. A genuine evil would thus be sub- 
stituted for one that was purely imaginary. 

Helena’s intellectual deficiencies could not be concealed. 
She was a proficient in the elements of no science. The 
doctrine of lines and surfaces was as disproportionate with 
her intellects as with those of the mock-bird. She had not 
reasoned on the principles of human action, nor examined 
the structure of society. She was ignorant of the past or 
present condition of mankind. History had not informed 
her of the one, nor the narratives of voyages, nor the deduc- 
tions of geography of the otiier. The heights of eloquence 
and poetry were shut out from her view. She could not 
commune in their native dialect, with the sages of Rome 
and Athens. To her those perennial fountains of wisdom 
and refinement were sealed. The constitution of nature, 
the attributes of its author, the arrangement of the parts of 
the external universe, and the substance, modes of operation, 
and ultimate destiny of human intelligence, w'ere enigmas 
unsolved and insoluble by her. 

But this was not all. The superstiTicture could for the 
present be spared. Nay, it was desirable that the province 
of rearing it, should be reserved for him. All he wanted 
was ^ suitable foundation ; but this Helena did not possess. 
He had not hitherto been able to create in her the inclination 
or the power. She had listened to his precepts with docil- 
ity. She had diligently conned the lessons which he had 
prescribed, but the impressions were as fleeting as if they 
had been made on water. Nature seemed to have set im- 
passible limits to her attainments. 

This indeed was an unwelcome belief. He struggled to 
invalidate it. He reflected on the immaturity of her age. 
What but crude and hasty views was it reasonable to expect 
at so early a period. If her mind had not been awakened. 

10 * 


114 


ORMOND. 


it had proceeded, perhaps, from the injudiciousness of liis 
plans, or merely from their not having been persisted in. 
What was wanting but the ornaments of mind to render 
this being all that poets have feigned of angelic nature. 
When he indulged himself in imaging the union of capacious 
understanding with her personal loveliness, his conceptions 
swelled to a pitch of enthusiasm, and it seemed as if no labor 
was too great to be employed in the production of such a 
creature. And yet, in die midst of his glowings, he would 
sink into sudden dejection at the recollection of that which 
passion had, for a time, excluded. To make her wise it 
would be requisite to change her sex. He had forgotten 
that his pupil w^as a female, and her capacity therefore limit- 
ed by nature. This mortifying thought was outbalanced by 
another. Her attainments, indeed, were suitable to the im- 
becility of her sex; but did she not surpass, in those attain- 
ments, the ordinary rate of women 9 They must not be 
condemned, because they are outshone by qualities diat are 
necessarily male births. 

Her accomplishments formed a much more attractive 
theme. He overlooked no article in the catalogue. He 
was confounded at one time, and encouraged at another, on 
remarking the contradictions that seemed to be included in 
her character. It was difficult to conceive the impossibility 
of passing tliat barrier which yet she was able to touch. 
She was no poet. She listened to the rehearsal, without 
emotion, or was moved, not by the substance of the passage, 
by the dazzling image or tlie magic sympathy, but by some- 
thing adscititious ; yet usher her upon tlie stage, and no poet 
would wish for a more powerful organ of his conceptions. 
In assuming this office, she appeared to have drank in the 
very soul of the dramatist. What was wanting in judgment, 
was supplied by memory, in the tenaciousness of wliich, she 
has seldom been rivalled. 

Her sentiments were trite and undigested, but were deco- 
rated with all the fluences and melodies of elocution. Her 
musical instructor had been a Sicilian, who had formed her 
.style after the Italian model. This man had likewise tauglit 
her his own language. He had supplied her chiefly with 
Sicilian compositions, both in poetry and melody, and was 


ORMOND. 115 

content to be unclassical, for the sake of the feminine and 
voluptuous graces of his native dialect. 

Ormond was an accurate judge of the proficiency of Hel- 
ena, and of the felicity with which these accomplishments 
were suited to her character. When his pupil personated tiie 
victims of anger and grief, and poured forth the fiery indig- 
nation of Calista, or the maternal despair of Constance, or 
the self-contentions of Ipsipile, he could not deny the hom- 
age which her talents might claim. 

Her Sicilian tutor had found her no less tractable as a vo- 
tary of painting. She needed only the education of Angeli- 
ca, to exercise as potent and prolific a pencil. Tliis was in- 
compatible witli her condition, which limited her attainments 
to the elements of this art. It was otherwise with music. 
Here there was no obstacle to skill, and here the assiduities 
of many years, in addition to a prompt and ai’dent genius, set 
her beyond the hopes of rivalship. 

Ormond had often amused his fancy with calling up im- 
ages of excellence in this art. He saw no bounds to the in- 
fluence of habit, in augmenting the speed and multiplying 
the divisions of muscular motion. The fingers, by their 
form and size, were qualified to outrun and elude tlie most 
vigilant eye. The sensibility of keys and wires had limits, 
but these limits depended on the structure of the instrument, 
and tlie perfection of its structure was proportioned to the 
skill of the artist. On well constructed keys and strings, 
was it possible to carry diversities of movement and pressure 
too far. How far they could be carried was mere theme of 
conjecture, until it was his fate to listen to the magical per- 
formances of Helena, whose volant finger seemed to be self- 
impelled. Her touches were creative of a thousand forms 
of piano, and of numberless transitions from grave to quick, 
perceptible only to ears like her own. 

In the selection and arrangement of notes, there are no 
limits to luxuriance and celerity. Helena had long relin- 
quished the drudgery of imitation. She never played but 
when there were motives to fervor, and when she was likely 
to ascend without impediment, and to maintain for a suitable 
period her elevation, to the element of new ideas. The 
lyrics of Milton and of Metastasio, she sung with accompani- 
ments that never tired, because they were never repeated. 


ORMOND. 


116 

Her harp and cla\dchord supplied her with endless combina- 
tions, and these in the opinion of Ormond were not inferior 
to the happiest exertions of Handel and Arne. 

Chess was his favorite amusement. This was the only- 
game which he allowed himself to play. He had studied it 
with so much zeal and success, that there were few with 
whom he deigned to contend. He was prone to consider it 
as a sort of criterion of human capacity. He who had ac- 
quired sldll in this science, could not be infirm in mind ; and 
yet he found in Helena, a competitor not unworthy of all his 
energies. Many hours were consumed in this employment, 
and here die lady was sedate, considerate, extensive in fore- 
sight, and fertile in expedients. 

Her deportment was graceful, in as much as it flowed 
fi:om a consciousness of her defects. She was devoid of ar- 
rogance and vanity, neither imagining herself better than 
she was, and setting light by those qualifications w^hich she 
unquestionably possessed. Such was the mixed chai’acter 
of this woman. 

Ormond was occupied with schemes of a rugged and ar- 
duous nature. His intimate associates and the partakers of 
his confidence, were imbued with the same zeal, and ar- 
dent in the same pursuits. Helena could lay no claim to be 
exalted to this rank. That one destitute of this claim should 
enjoy tlie privileges of his wife, w as still a supposition truly 
monstrous. Yet the image of Helena, fondly loving him, 
and a model as he conceived of tenderness and constancy, 
devoured by secret remorse, and pursued by the scorn of 
mankind ; a mark for slander to shoot at, and an outcast of 
society, did not visit his meditations in vain. Tlie rigor of 
liis principles began now to relent. 

He considered that various occupations are incident to 
every man. He cannot be invariably employed in the pro- 
motion of one purpose. He must occasionally unbend, if 
he desii’es that the springs of his mind should retain their 
due vigor. Suppose his life were divided between business 
and amusement. This was a necessary distribution, and 
sufficiently congenial with his temper. It became him to se- 
lect with skill liis sources of amusement. It is true that 
Helena w as unable to participate in his graver occupations ; 
what then 9 In whom were blended so many pleasurable 


ORMOND. 


117 

attributes 9 In her were assembled an exquisite and deli- 
cious variety. As it was, he was daily in her company. 
He should scarcely be more so, if marriage should take 
place. In that case, no change in their mode of life would 
be necessary. There was no need of dwelling under the 
same roof. His revenue was equal to the support of many 
household establishments. His personal independence would 
remain equally inviolable. No time, he thought, would di- 
minish his influence over the mind of Helena, and it was not 
to be forgotten that the transition would to her be happy. It 
would reinstate her in the esteem of the world, and dispel 
those phantoms of remorse and shame by wliich she was at 
present persecuted. 

These were plausible considerations. Tliey tended at 
least to shake liis resolutions. Time would probably have 
completed the conquest of his pride, had not a new incident 
set the question in a new light. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The narrative of Melbourne made a deeper impression 
on the mind of his guest tlian was at first apparent. This 
man’s conduct was directed by the present impulse, and 
however elaborate liis abstract notions, he seldom stopped to 
settle the agreement between his principles and actions. The 
use of money was a science like every other branch of be- 
nevolence, not reducible to any fixed principles. No man, 
in tlie disbursement of money, could say whether he was 
conferring a benefit or injury. Tlie visible and immediate 
effects might be good, but evil was its ultimate and general 
tendency. To be governed by a view to the present rather 
than the future, was a human infirmity from which he did 
not pretend to be exempt. This, though an insufficient 
apology for the conduct of a rational being, was suitable to 
his indolence, and he was content in all cases to employ it. 
It was thus that he reconciled himself to beneficent acts, 
and humorously held himself up as an object of censure, on 
occasions when most entitled to applause. 

He easily procured information as to the character and 


ORMOND. 


118 

situation of the Dudleys. Neighbors are always inquisitive, 
and happily, in this case, were enabled to make no unfavor- 
able report. He resolved, without hesitation, to supply their 
wants. This he performed in a manner truly characteristic. 
There was a method of gaining access to families, and mark- 
ing them in their unguarded attitudes more easy and effec- 
tual than any other ; it required least preparation and cost 
least pains ; the disguise, also, was of die most impenetrable 
kind. He had served a sort of occasional apprenticeship to 
the art, and executed its functions with perfect ease. It was 
the most entire and grotesque metamorphosis imaginable. It 
was stepping from the highest to the lowest rank in society, 
and shifting himself into a form, as remote from his own, as 
those recorded by Ovid. In a word, it was sometimes his 
practice to exchange liis complexion and habiliments for 
diose of a negro and a chimney-sweep, and to call at certain 
doors for employment. This he generally secured by im- 
portunities, and the cheapness of his services. 

When the loftiness of his port, and the punctiliousness 
of liis nicety were considered, we should never have believed, 
what yet could be truly asserted, that he had frequently 
swept his own chimneys, without the knowledge of his own 
servants. * It was likewise true, though equally incredible, 
that he had played at romps with his scullion, and listened 
with patience to a thousand slanders on his own character. 

In this disguise he visited the house of IVIr. -Dudley. It 
was nine o’clock in the morning. He remarked, with criti- 
cal eyes, the minutest circumstance in the appearance and 
demeanor of his customers, and glanced curiously at the 
house and furniture. Every tiling was new and every thing 
pleased. The walls, though broken into rougliness, by care- 
lessness or time, were adorned with glistening wliite. The 
floor, though loose and uneven, and witli gaping seams, had 
received all the improvements which cloth and brush could 
give. The pine tables, rush chairs, and uncurtained bed, 
had been purchased at half price, at vendue, and exhibited 
various tokens of decay, but care, and neatness, and order 
were displayed in their condition and arrangement. 

* Similar exploits are related of Count de La Lippe and Wortley 
Montague. 


ORMOND. 


119 

The lower appartment was the eating and sitting room. 
It was likewise Mr. Dudley’s bed-chamber. The upper 
room was occupied by Constantia and her Lucy. Ormond 
viewed every thing with the accuracy of an artist, and car- 
ried away with him a catalogue of every thing visible. The 
faded form of Mr. Dudley that still retained its dignity, the 
sedateness, graceful condescension and personal elegance 
of Constantia, were new to the apprehension of Ormond. 
The contrast between the house and its inhabitants, render- 
ed the appearance more striking. When he had finished 
Iris task, he retired, but returning in a quarter of an hour, 
he presented a letter to the young lady. He behaved as if 
by no means desirous of eluding her interrogatories, and 
when she desired him to stay, readily complied. The letter, 
unsigned and unsuperscribed, w^as to this effect. 

“ The waiter of this is acquainted witii the transaction be- 
tween Thomas Craig and Mr. Dudley. The former is debt- 
or to Mr. Dudley in a large sum. I have undertaken to pay 
as much of this debt, and at such times as suits my conve- 
nience. I have had pecuniary engagements with Craig. I 
hold myself, in the sum inclosed, discharging so much of his 
debt. The future payments are uncertain, but I hope they 
will contribute to relieve the necessities of Mr. Dudley.” 

Ormond had calculated the amount of what would be 
necessary for the annual subsistence of this family, on the 
present frugal plan. He had regulated his disbursements 
accordingly. 

It was natural to feel curiosity as to the writer of this epis- 
tle. The bearer displayed a prompt and talkative disposi- 
tion. He had a staring eye and a grin of vivacity forever 
at command. When questioned by Constantia, he answer- 
ed that the gentleman had forbidden him to mention his name 
or the place where he lived. Had he ever met with the 
same person before ^ O yes. He had lived with him 
from a child. His mother lived wdth him still and his brothers. 
His master had nothing for him to do at home, so he sent 
liim out sweeping chimneys, taking from him only half the 
money that he earned, that way. He was a very good 
master. 

Then the gentleman had been a long time in the city ^ 

O yes. All his life he reckoned . He used to live in Wal- 


120 


ORMOND. 


nut Street, but now he ’s moved down town. Here he 
checked himself, and added, but I forgets. I must not tell 
where he lives. He told me I must’nt. 

He has a family and childi*en, I suppose ? 

O yes. Why don’t you know Miss Hetty and Miss Bet- 
sey there again. I was going to tell the name-, that he 

said I must not tell. 

Constantia saw that the secret might be easily discover- 
ed, but she forbore. She disdained to take advantage of 
this messenger’s imagined simplicity. She dismissed him 
with some small addition to his demand, and with a promise 
always to employ him in this way. 

By this mode, Ormond had effectually concealed himself. 
The lady’s conjectures, founded on this delusive informa- 
tion, necessarily wandered widely from the truth. Tlie ob- 
servations tliat he had made during this visit afforded his 
mind considerable employment. Tlie manner in which this 
lady had sustained so cruel a reverse of fortune, the cheer- 
fulness with which she appeared to forego all the gratifica- 
tions of affluence ; tlie skill with which she selected her patli 
of humble industry, and tlie steadiness with which she pur- 
sued it, were proofs of a moral constitution, from which he 
supposed the female sex to be debarred. The comparison 
was obvious between Constantia and Helena, and the result 
was by no means advantageous to the latter. Was it possi- 
ble that such a one descended to the level of her father’s 
apprentice That die sacrificed her honor to a wretch 
like tliat This reflection tended to repress the inclination 
he would otherwise have felt for cultivating her society, but 
it did not indispose him to benefit her in a certain way. 

On his next visit to his “ bella Siciliana,” as he called her, 
he questioned her as to the need in which she might stand 
of the services of a seamstress, and being informed that 
they were sometimes wanted, he recommended Miss Acworth 
to her patronage. He said that he had heard her spoken 
of in favorable terms, by tlie gossips at Melbourne’s. They 
represented her as a good girl, slenderly provided for, and 
he wished that Helena would prefer her to aU others. 

His recom.mendation was sufficient. The wishes of Oi- 
moiid, as soon as they became known, became hers. Her 
temper made her always diligent in search of novelty. It 


ORMOND. 


121 


was easy to make work for the needle. In short she re- 
solved to send for her the next day. The interview accord- 
ingly took place on the ensuing morning, not without mu- 
tual surprise, and, on the part of the fair Sicilian, not with- 
out considerable embarrassment. 

This circumstance arose from their having changed their 
respective names, though from motives of a very different 
kind. They were not strangers to each other, though no 
intimacy had ever subsisted between them. Each was 
merely acquainted with the name, person, and general 
character of the other. No circumstance in Constantia’s 
situation tended to embarrass her. Her mind had attained 
a state of serene composure, incapable of being ruffled by 
an incident of this kind. She merely derived pleasure 
from the sight of her old acquaintance. The aspect of 
things around her was splendid and gay. She seemed the 
mistress of the mansion, and her name was changed. Hence 
it was unavoidable to conclude that she was married. 

Helena was conscious that appearances were calculated 
to suggest this conclusion. The idea was a painful one. 
She sorrowed to tliink that this conclusion was fallacious. 
The consciousness that her true condition was unknown to 
her visitant, and the ignominiousness of that truth, gave an 
air of constraint to her behavior, which Constantia ascribed 
to a principle of delicacy. 

In the midst of reflections relative to herself, she admit- 
ted some share of surprise at the discovery of Constantia, 
in a situation so inferior to that in which she had formerly 
known her. She had heard, in general terms, of the mis- 
fortunes of Mr. Dudley, but was unacquainted with particu- 
lars ; but this surprise, and the difficulty of adapting her 
behavior to circumstances, was only in part the source of 
her embarrassment, though by her companion it was wholly 
attributed to this cause. Constantia thought it her duty to 
remove it by open and unaffected manners. She therefore 
said, in a sedate and cheerful tone, you see me, madam, in 
a situation somewhat unlike that in wliich I formerly was 
placed. You will probably regard the change as an un- 
happy one, but I assure you, I have found it far less so 
than I expected. I am thus reduced not by my own fault. 

11 


122 


ORMOND. 


It is this reflection that enables me to conform to it without 
a murmur. I shall rejoice to know that Mrs. Eden is as 
happy as I am. 

Helena was pleased with this address, and returned an 
answer full of sweetness. She had not, in her compassion 
for the fallen, a particle of pride. She thought of nothing 
but the contrast between the former situation of her visitant 
and the present. The fame of her great qualities had 
formerly excited veneration, and that reverence was by no 
means diminished by a nearer scrutiny. The consciousness 
of her own frailty, meanwhile, diffused over the behavior of 
Helena, a timidity and dubiousness uncommonly fascinating. 
She solicited Constantia’s friendship in a manner that shewed 
she was afraid of nothing but denial. An assent was eagerly 
given, and thenceforth a cordial intercourse was established 
between tliem. 

The real situation of Helena was easily discovered. The 
officious person who communicated this information, at the 
same time cautioned Constantia against associating with one 
of tainted reputation. This information threw some light 
upon appearances. It accounted for that melancholy which 
Helena was unable to conceal. It explained that solitude 
in which she lived, and which Constantia had ascribed to the 
death or absence of her husband. It justified the solicitous 
silence she had hitherto maintained respecting her own 
affairs, and which her friend’s good sense forbade her to em- 
ploy any sinister means of eluding. 

No long time was necessary to make her mistress of 
Helena’s character. She loved her with uncommon warmth, 
though by no means blind to her defects. She formed no 
expectations, from the knowledge of her character, to which 
this intelligence operated as a disappointment. It merely 
excited her pity, and made her thoughtful how she might 
assist her in repairing this deplorable error. 

This design was of no ordinary magnitude. She saw 
that it w^as previously necessary to obtain the confidence of 
Helena. This was a task of easy performance. She knew 
the purity of her own motives and tlie extent of her powers, 
and embarked in this undertaking with full confidence of 
success. She had only to profit by a private interview, to 
acquaint her friend witli what she knew, to solicit a com- 


ORMOND. 


123 


plete and satisfactory disclosure, to explain the impressions 
which her intelligence produced, and to offer her disinterest- 
ed advice. No one knew better how to couch her ideas in 
words, suitable to the end proposed by her in imparting 
them. 

Helena was at first terrified, but the benevolence of her 
friend quickly entitled her to confidence and gratitude that 
knew no limits. She had been deterred from unveiling her 
heart by the fear of exciting contempt or abhorrence ; but 
when she found that all due allowances were made, that her 
conduct was treated as erroneous in no atrocious or inexpia- 
ble degree, and as far from being insusceptible of remedy ; 
that the obloquy with which she had been treated, found no 
vindicator or participator in her friend, her heart was con- 
siderably relieved. She had been long a stranger to the 
sympathy and intercourse of her own sex. Now, this good, 
in its most precious form, was conferred upon her, and she 
experienced an increase, rather than diminution of tender- 
ness, in consequence of her true situation being known. 

She made no secret of any part of her history. She 
did full justice to the integrity of her lover, and explained 
the unforced conditions on which she had consented to live 
with him. This relation exhibited tlie character of Ormond 
in a very uncommon light. His asperities wounded, and 
his sternness chilled. What unauthorized conceptions of 
matrimonial and political equality did he entertain ! He 
had fashioned his treatment of Helena on sullen and fero- 
cious principles. Yet he was able, it seemed, to mould her, 
by means of them, nearly into the creature that he wished. 
She knew too little of the man justiy to estimate his cha- 
racter. It remained to be ascertained whether his purposes 
were consistent and upright, or were those of a villain 
and betrayer. 

Meanwhile what was to be done by Helena 9 Marriage 
had been refused on plausible pretences. Her unenlighten- 
ed understanding made her no match for her lover. She 
would never maintain her claim to nuptial privileges in his 
presence, or if she did, she would never convince liim of 
their validity. 

Were they indeed valid 9 Was not the disparity between 
them incurable A marriage of minds so dissimilar could 


124 


ORMOND. 


only be productive of misery immediately to him, and by a 
reflex operation, to herself. She could not be happy in a 
union that was the source of regret to her husband. Mar- 
riage therefore was not possible, or if possible, was not, 
perhaps, to be wished. But what was the choice that re- 
mained 9 

To continue in her present situation was not to be endured. 
Disgrace was a daemon that would blast every hope of hap- 
piness. She was excluded from all society but that of the 
depraved. Her situation was eminently critical. It de- 
pended, perhaps, on the resolution she should now form 
whether she should be enrolled among the worst of mankind. 
Infamy is the worst of evils. It creates innumerable obstruc- 
tions in the path of virtue. It manacles the hand, and en- 
tangles the feet that are active only to good. To the weak 
it is an evil of much greater magnitude. It determines 
their destiny, and they hasten to merit tliat reproach, which, 
at first it may be, they did not deserve. 

This connexion is intrinsically flagitious. Helena is sub- 
jected by it to the worst ills that are incident to humanity, 
the general contempt of mankind, and the reproaches of her 
own conscience. From these, there is but one method from 
which she can hope to be relieved. The intercourse must 
cease. 

It was easier to see the propriety of separation, than to 
project means for accomplishing it. It was true that Helena 
loved ; but what quarter was due to this passion when 
divorced from integrity 9 Is it mot in every bosom a per- 
ishable sentiment 9 Whatever be her warmth, absence will 
congeal it. Place her in new scenes, and supply her with 
new associates. Her accoihplishments will not fail to attract 
votaries. From these she may select a conjugal companion 
suitable to her mediocrity of talents. 

But alas ! What power on earth can prevail on her to 
renounce Ormond 9 Others may justly entertain tliis pros- 
pect, but it must be invisible to her. Besides, is it abso- 
lutely certain that either her peace of mind or her reputa- 
tion will be restored by this means 9 In the opinion of the 
world her offences cannot, by any perseverance in penitence, 
be expiated. She will never believe that separation will 
externunate her passion. Certain it is, that it will avail 


ORMOND. 


125 


nothing to the re-establishment of her fame. But if it were 
conducive to these ends, how chimerical to suppose that she 
will ever voluntarily adopt it ^ If Ormond refuse his con- 
currence, there is absolutely an end to hope. And what 
power on earth is able to sway his determinations At 
least what influence was it possible for her to obtain over 
them 

Should they separate, whither should she retire What 
mode of subsistence should she adopt She has never 
been accustomed to think beyond the day. She has eaten 
and drank, but another has provided the means. She 
scarcely comprehends the principle that governs the world, 
and in consequence of which, nothing can be gained but by 
giving sometliing in exchange for it. She is ignorant and 
helpless as a child, on every topic that relates to the pro- 
curing of subsistence. Her education has disabled her 
from standing alone. 

But this was not all. She must not only be supplied by 
others, but sustained in the enjoyment of a luxurious ex- 
istence. Would you bereave her of the gratifications of 
opulence You had better take away her life. Nay, it 
would ultimately amount to this. She can live but in one 
way. 

At present she is lovely, and, to a certain degree, innocent, 
but expose her to the urgencies and temptations of want, 
let personal pollution be the price set upon the voluptuous 
affluences of her present condition, and it is to be feared 
there is nothing in the contexture of her mind to hinder her 
from making the purchase. In every respect therefore the 
prospect was a hopeless one. So hopeless that her mind 
insensibly returned to the question which she had at first 
dismissed with very slight examination, the question relative 
to the advantages and probabilities of marriage. A more 
accurate review convinced her that this was the most eligible 
alternative. It was, likewise, piost easily eflected. The 
lady, of course, would be its fervent advocate. There did 
not want reasons why Ormond should finally embrace it. In 
what manner appeals to his reason or his passion might most 
effectually be made, she knew not. 

Helena was illy qualified to be her own advocate. Her 
11 * 


126 


ORMOND. 


unhappiness could not but be visible to Ormond. He bad 
shewn himself attentive and affectionate. Was it impossible 
that, in time, he should reason himself into a spontaneous 
adoption of this scheme ^ This, indeed, was a slender foun- 
dation for hope, but there was no other on which she could 
build. 

Such were the meditations of Constantia on this topic. 
She was deeply solicitous for the happiness of her friend. 
They spent much of their time together. The consolations 
of her society were earnestly sought by Helena, but to en- 
joy them, she was for the most part obliged to visit the 
former at her own dwelling. For this arrangement, Con- 
stantia apologized by saying, you will pardon my requesting 
you to favor me with your visits, rather than allowing you 
mine. Every thing is airy and brilliant within these walls. 
There is, besides, an air of seclusion and security about you 
that is delightful. In comparison, my dwelling is bleak, 
comfortless, and imretired, but my father is entitled to all 
my care. His infirmity prevents him from amusing himself, 
and his heart is cheered by the mere sound of my voice, 
though not addressed to him. The mere belief of my 
presence seems to operate as an antidote to the dreariness 
of solitude ; and now you know my motives, I am sure you 
will not only forgive but approve of my request. 


CHAPTER X\^ 

When once the subject had been introduced, Helena 
was prone to descant upon her own situation, and listened 
with deference to the remarks and admonitions of her com- 
panion. Constantia did not conceal from her any of her 
sentiments. She enabled her to view her own condition in 
its true light, and set before her the indispensable advantages 
of marriage, while she, at the same time, afforded her the 
best directions as to the conduct she ought to pursue in 
order to effect her purpose. 

The mind of Helena was thus kept in a state of per- 
petual and uneasy fluctuation. While absent from Ormond, 


ORMOND. 


127 


or listening to her friend’s remonstrances, the deplorableness 
of her condition, arose in its most disastrous hues, before Im* 
imagination. But the spectre seldom failed to vanish at the 
approach of Ormond. His voice dissipated every inquietude. 

She was not insensible of this inconstancy. She per- 
ceived and lamented her own weakness. She was destitute 
of all confidence in her own exertions. She could not be 
in the perpetual enjoyment of his company. Her intervals 
of tranquillity therefore were short, while those of anxiety 
and dejection were insupportably tedious. She revered, but 
believed herself incapable to emulate the magnanimity of her 
monitor. The consciousness of inferiority, especially in a 
case like this, in which her happiness so much depended on 
her o\vn exertions, excited in her tlie most humiliating sen- 
sations. 

While indulging in fruitless melancholy, the thought one 
day occurred to her, why may not Constantia be prevailed 
upon to plead my cause*? Her capacity and courage are 
equal to any undertaking. The reasonings that are so 
powerful in my eyes, would they be trivial and futile in 
tliose of Ormond *? I cannot have a more pathetic and dis- 
interested advocate. 

Tliis idea was cherished with uncommon ardor. She 
seized the first opportunity that offered itself to impart it to 
her friend. It was a wild and singular proposal and was re- 
jected at the first glance. This scheme, so romantic and 
impracticable as it at first seemed, appeared to Helena in the 
most plausible colors. She could not bear to relinquish her 
new born hopes. She saw no valid objection to it. Every 
thing was easy to her friend, provided her sense of duty and 
her zeal could be awakened. The subject was frequently 
suggested to Constantia’s reflections. Perceiving the san- 
guineness of her friend’s confidence, and ftilly impressed 
witli the value of the end to be accomplished, she insensibly 
veered to the same opinion. At least, the scheme was wor- 
thy of a candid discussion before it was rejected. 

Ormond was a stranger to her. His manners were re- 
pulsive and austere. She was a mere girl. Her personal 
attachment to Helena was all that she could plead in excuse 
for taking part in her concerns. The subject was delicate. 
A blunt and irregular character like Ormond’s, might tlirow 


ORMOND. 


128 

an air of ridicule over the scene. She shrunk from the en- 
counter of a boisterous and manlike spirit. 

But were not these scruples effeminate and puerile*? Had 
she studied so long in the school of adversity, without con- 
viction of tlie duty of a virtuous independence*? Was she 
not a rational being, fully imbued with the justice of her 
cause*? Was it not ignoble to refuse the province of a vin- 
dicator of the injured, before any tribunal, however tremen- 
dous or unjust*? And who was Ormond, that his eye should 
inspire terror*? 

The father or brother of Helena might assume the office 
without indecorum. Nay, a mother or sister might not be 
debarred from it. Why then should she who was actuated 
by equal zeal, and was engaged, by ties stronger than con- 
sanguinity, in the promotion of her friend’s happiness. It is 
true she did not view the subject in the light in which it was 
commonly viewed by brothers and parents. It was not a 
gust of rage that should transport her into his presence. 
She did not go to awaken his slumbering conscience, and 
abash him in the pride of guilty triumph, but to rectify de- 
liberate errors and change his course by the change of his 
principles. It was her business to point out to him the road 
of duty and happiness, from which he had strayed with no 
sinister intentions. This was to be done without raving and 
fury, but with amicable soberness, and in the way of calm 
and rational remonstrance. Yet there were scruples that 
would not be shut out, and continually whispered her. What 
an office is this for a girl and a stranger to assume *? 

Li what manner should it be performed*? Should an in- 
terview be sought, and her ideas be explained without con- 
fusion or faultering, undismayed by ludicrous airs or insolent 
frowns*? But this was a point to be examined. Was Or- 
mond capable of such behaviour*? If he were, it would be 
useless to attempt the reformation of his errors. Such a man 
is incurable and obdurate. Such a man is not to be sought as 
the husband of Helena; but this surely is a different being. 

The medium through which she had viewed his character 
was an ample one, but might not be very accurate. The 
treatment which Helena had received from liim, exclusive 
of his fundamental error, betokened a mind to which she did 
not disdain to be allied. In spite of liis defects she saw 


ORMOND. 


129 


that their elements were more congenial, and the points of 
contact, between this person and herself, more numerous, 
than between her and Helena, whose voluptuous sweetness 
of temper and mediocrity of understanding, excited in her 
bosom no genuine sympathy. 

Every thing is progressive in the human mind. When 
there is leisure to reflect, ideas will succeed each other in a 
long train, before the ultimate point be gained. The atten- 
tion must shift from one side to the other of a given question 
many times before it settles. Constantia did not form her 
resolutions in haste, but when once formed, they were exempt 
from fluctuation. She reflected before she acted, and there- 
fore acted with consistency and vigor. She did not apprise 
her fi’iend of her intention. She was willing that she should 
benefit by her interposition, before she knew it was employed. 

She sent her Lucy with a note to Ormond’s house. It 
was couched in these terms ; 

“ Constantia Dudley requests an interview with Mr. Or- 
mond. Her business being of some moment, she wishes 
him to name an hour when most disengaged.” 

An answer was immediately returned, that at three o’clock, 
in the afternoon, he should be glad to see her. 

This message produced no small surprise in Ormond. 
He had not withdrawn his notice from Constantia, and had 
marked, with curiosity and approbation, the progress of the 
connexion between the two women. The impressions which 
he had received from the report of Helena, were not dis- 
similar to those which Constantia had imbibed, from the 
same quarter, respecting himself ; but he gathered from them 
no suspicion of the purpose of a visit. He recollected his 
connexion witli Craig. This lady had had an opportunity of 
knowing that some connexion subsisted between them. He 
concluded, that some information or inquiry respecting Craig, 
might occasion this event. As it was, it gave liim considera- 
ble satisfaction. It would enable him more closely to ex- 
amine one, with respect to whom he entertained great curi- 
osity. 

Ormond’s conjecture was partly right. Constantia did 
not forget her having traced Craig to this habitation. She 
designed to profit by the occasion, which this circumstance 
afforded her, of making some inquiry respecting Craig, in 


ORMOND. 


130 

order to introduce, by suitable degrees, a more important 
subject. 

The appointed hour ha\dng arrived, he received her m his 
drawing-room. He knew what was due to his guest. He 
loved to mortify, by his negligence, the pride of his equals 
and superiors, but a low'er class had nothing to fear from his 
insolence. Constantia took the seat that was offered to her, 
without speaking. She had made suitable preparations for 
diis interview, and her composure was invincible. The man- 
ners of her host were by no means calculated to disconcert 
her. His air was conciliating and attentive. 

She began with naming Craig, as one known to Ormond, 
and desired to be informed of his place of abode. She 
was proceeding to apologize for this request, by explaining 
in general terms, that her father’s infomities prevented him 
from acting for himself, that Craig was his debtor to a large 
amount, that he stood in need of all that justly belonged to 
him, and was in pursuit of some means for tracing Craig to 
his retreat. Ormond interrupted her, examining, at the 
same time, with a vigilance, somewhat too unsparing, the ef" 
fects which his w'ords should produce upon her. 

You may spare yourself the trouble of explaining. I am 
acquainted with the whole affair between Craig and your 
family. He has concealed from me nothing. I know all 
that has passed between you. 

In saying this, Ormond intended that his looks and empha- 
sis should convey his full meaning. In the style of her com- 
ments he saw none of those corroborating symptoms that 
he expected. 

Indeed ! He has been very liberal of his confidence. 
Confession is a token of penitence, but, alas ! I fear he has 
deceived you. To be sincere was doubtless his true interest, 
but he is too much in the habit of judging superficially. If 
he has told you all, tliere is, indeed, no need of explanation. 
This visit is, in that case, sufficiently accounted for. Is it in 
your power. Sir, to inform us whither he has gone 9 

For what end should I tell you 9 I promise you you 
will not follow him. Take my word for it, he is totally un- 
worthy of you. Cet the past be no precedent for the future. 
If you have not made that discovery yourself, I have made 
it for you. I expect, at least, to be thanked for my trouble. 


ORMOND. 131 

Tills speech was unintelligible to Constantia. Her looks 
betokened a perplexity unmingled with fear or shame. 

It is my way, continued he, to say what I tliink. I care 
little for consequences. I have said that I know all. This 
will excuse me for being perfectly explicit. That I am mis- 
taken is very possible ; but I am inclined to place tliat matter 
beyond the reach of a doubt. Listen to me, and confirm 
me in the opinion I have already formed of your good sense, 
by viewing, in a just light, tlie unreservedness with which you 
are treated. I have something to tell, which, if you are 
wise, you will not be offended at my telling so roundly. 
On the contrary you will thank me, and perceive that my 
conduct is a proof of my respect for you. The person 
whom you met here is named Craig, but, as he tells me, is 
not the man you looked for. This man’s brother, the part- 
ner of your father, and, as he assured me, your o\vn accept- 
ed and illicitly gratified lover, is dead. 

Tliese words were uttered without any extenuating hesi- 
tation or depression of tone. On the contraiy, the most 
offensive terms were drawn out in the most deliberate and 
emphatic manner. Constantia’s cheeks glowed and her eyes 
sparkled with indignation, but she forbore to interrupt. The 
looks with which she listened to the remainder of the speech, 
shewed that she fully comprehended the scene, and enabled 
liim to comprehend it. He proceeded. 

This man is a brother of that. Their resemblance in 
figure occasioned your mistake. Your father’s debtor died, 
it seems, on his arrival at Jamaica. There he met with 
tliis brother, and bequeathed to liim his property and papers. 
Some of these papers are in my possession. Tliey are 
letters from Constantia Dudley, and are parts of an intrigue, 
which, considering the character of the man, was not much 
to her honor. Such was this man’s narrative told to me 
some time before your meeting with him at this house. I 
have a right to judge in this affair, that is, I have a right to 
my opinion. If I mistake, and I half suspect myself, you 
are able, perhaps, to rectify my error, and in a case like this, 
doubtless you will not want the inclination. 

Perhaps if tlie countenance of this man had not been 
chai’acterised by the keenest intelligence, and a sort of careless 
and overflowing good will, tliis speech might have produced 


132 


ORMOND. 


different effects. She was prepared, though imperfectly, 
for entering into his character. He waited for an answer, 
which she gave without emotion. 

You are deceived. I am sony for your own sake, that you 
are. He must have had some end in view, in imposing these 
falsehoods upon you, which, perhaps, they have enabled 
Iiim to accomplish. As to myself, this man can do me 
no injury. I willingly make you my judge. Tlie letters 
you speak of will alone suffice to my vindication. Tliey never 
were received from me, and are forgeries. That man always 
persisted till he made liimself the dupe of liis own artifices. 
That incident in his plot, on tlie introduction of which he 
probably the most applauded himself, will most powerfully 
operate to defeat it. 

Tliose letters never were received from me, and are for- 
geries. His skill in imitation extended no fartlier in the 
present case, than my handwriting. My modes of thinking 
and expression were beyond the reach of his mimicry. 

When she had finished, Ormond spent a moment in ru- 
minating. I perceive you are right, said he. I suppose 
he has purloined from me two hundred guineas, wliich 1 in- 
trusted to his fidelity. And yet I received a letter ; — but 
that may likewise be a forgery. By my soul, continued he, 
in a tone that had more of satisfaction than disappointment 
in it, this fellow was an adept at his trade. I do not repine. 
I have bought the exhibition at a cheap rate. The pains 
that he took did not merit a less recompense. I am glad 
that he was contented with so little. Had he persisted he 
might have raised the price far above its value. ’Twill be 
lamentable if he receive more than he stipulated for ; if, in 
liis last purchase, the gallows should be thrown into the bar- 
gain. May he have the wisdom to see that a halter, though 
not included in his terms, is only a new instance of his good 
fortune ; but his cunning will hardly carry him thus far. 
His stupidity will, no doubt, prefer a lingering to a sudden 
exit. 

But this man and his destiny are trifles. Let us leave 
them to ‘ themselves. Your name is Constantia. ’Tw^as 
given you I suppose that you might be known by it. Pr ’ylhee, 
Constantia, w^as this the only purpose that brought you hitlier^? 
If it were, it has received as ample a discussion as it merits. 


ORMOND. 


133 


You came for this end, but will remain, I hope, for a better 
one. Having dismissed Craig and liis plots, let us now talk 
of each other. 

I confess, said the lady, with a hesitation she could not 
subdue, this was not my only purpose. One much more 
important has produced this visit. 

Indeed ! pray let me know it. I am glad that so trivial 
an object as Craig, did not occupy the first place in your 
thoughts. Proceed, I beseech you. 

It is a subject on which I cannot enter without hesitation. 
A hesitation unworthy of me. — 

Stop, cried Ormond, rising and touching the bell, nothing 
like time to make a conquest of embarrassment. We will 
defer this conference six minutes, just while we eat our din- 
ner. 

At the same moment a servant entered, with two plates 
and the usual apparatus for dinner. On seeing this she rose 
in some hurry, to depart. I thought. Sir, you were disen- 
gaged. I will call at some other hour. 

He seized her hand, and held her from going, but with an 
air by no means disrespectful. Nay, said he, what is it that 
scares you away Are you terrified at the mention of vic- 
tuals You must have fasted long when it comes to that. 
I told you true. I am disengaged, but not from the obliga- 
tion of eating and drinking. No doubt you have dined. No 
reason why I should go without my dinner. If you do not 
choose to partake with me, so much the better. Your tem- 
perance ought to dispense with two meals in an hour. Be 
a looker on, or, if that will not do, retire into my library, 
where, in six minutes, I will be with you ; and lend you my 
aid in the arduous task of telling me what you came with an 
intention of telling. 

This singular address disconcerted and abashed her. She 
was contented to follow the servant silently into an adjoining 
apartment. Here she reflected with no small surprise on 
the behavior of this man. Though ruffled, she was not 
heartily displeased with it. She had scarcely time to recol- 
lect herself, when he entered. He immediately seated her, 
and himself opposite to her. He fixed his eyes without scru- 
ple on her face. His gaze was steadfast, but not insolent or 
12 


134 


ORMOND. 


oppressive. He surveyed her ^vith the looks with which he 
would have eyed a charming portrait. His attention wa» 
occupied with what he saw, as that of an artist is occupied 
when viewing a Madonna of Rafaello. At length he broke 
silence. 

At dinner I was busy in thinking what it was you had to 
disclose. I will not fatigue you with my guesses. They 
would be impertinent, as long as the truth is going to be dis- 
closed. — He paused, and then continued. But I see you 
cannot dispense with my aid. Perhaps your business relates 
to Helena. She has done wrong, and you wish me to re- 
buke the girl. 

Constantia profited by this opening, and said, yes, she has 
done wrong. It is true, my business relates to her. I came 
liither as a suppliant in her behalf. Will you not assist her 
in recovering the path from which she has deviated She 
left it from confiding more in the judgment of her guide than 
her own. There is one method of repairing the evil. It 
lies with you to repair that evil. 

During this address, the gaiety of Ormond disappeared. 
He fixed his eyes on Constantia with new and even pathetic 
earnestness. I guessed as much, said he. I have often 
been deceived in my judgment of characters. Perhaps I do 
not comprehend your’s. Yet it is not little that I have heard 
respecting you. Something I have seen. I begin to sus- 
pect a material error in my theory of human nature. Hap- 
py will it be for Helena if my suspicions be groundless. 

You are Helena’s friend. Be mine also, and advise me. 
Shall I marry this girl or not ^ You know on what terms 
we live. Are they suitable to our respective characters 
Shall I wed this girl, or shall things remain as they are 9 

1 have an irreconcilable aversion to a sad brow and a sick 
bed. Helena is grieved, because her neighbors sneer and 
point at her. So far she is a fool, but diat is a folly of which 
she never will be cured. Marriage, it seems, will set all 
right. Answer me, Constantia, shall I marry 9 

There was something in the tone, but more in the tenor 
of this address that startled her. There was nothing in this 
man but what came upon her unaware. This sudden effu- 
sion of confidence, was particularly unexpected and embar- 
rassing. She scarcely biew whether to regard it as serious 


ORMOND. 


135 


or a jest. On observing her indisposed to speak, he contin- 
ued. 

Away with these impertinent circuities and scruples. 1 
know your meaning. Why should I pretend ignorance, 
and put you to the trouble of explanation 9 You came hither 
with no other view than to exact this question, and fur- 
nish an answer. Why should not we come at once to the 
point I have for some time been dubious on this head. 
There is something wanting to determine the balance. If 
you have that something, throw it into the proper scale. 

You err if you think this manner of addressing you is 
wild or improper. This girl is the subject of discourse. If 
she was not to be so, why did you favor me with this visit % 
You have sought me, and introduced yourself. I have, in 
like manner, overlooked ordinary forms : a negligence that 
has been systematic with me ; but, in the present case, par- 
ticularly justifiable by your example. Shame upon you, 
presumptuous girl, to suppose yourself the only rational be- 
ing among mankind. And yet, if you thought so, why did 
you tlius unceremoniously intrude upon my retirements'? 
This act is of a piece with the rest. It shows you to be one 
whose existence I did not believe possible. 

Take care. You know not what you have done. You 
came hither as Helena’s friend. Perhaps time may shew that 
in this visit, you have performed the behest of her bitterest 
enemy. But that is out of season. This girl is our mutual 
property. You are her friend; I am her lover. Her hap- 
piness is precious in my eyes and in your’s. To the rest of 
mankind she is a noisome weed, that cannot be shunned too 
cautiously, nor trampled on too much. If we forsake her, 
infamy that is now kept at bay, will seize upon her, and 
while it mangles her form, will tear from her her innocence. 
She has no arms with which to contend against that foe. 
Marriage will place her at once in security. Shall it be '? 
You have an exact knowledge of her strength and her weak- 
ness. Of me, you know little. Perhaps, before that ques- 
tion can be satisfactorily answ^ered, it is requisite to know the 
qualities of her husband. Be my character henceforth the 
subject of your study. I will furnish you with all the light 
in my power. Be not hasty in deciding, but when your de- 
cision is formed; let me know it. He waited for an aji- 


136 


ORMOND. 


swer, which she, at length, summoned resolution enough to 
give. 

You have come to the chief point which I had in view in 
making this visit. To say truth, I came hither to remon- 
strate with you on withholding that which Helena may justly 
claim from you. Her happiness will be unquestionably re- 
stored, and increased by it. Your’s will not be impaired. 
Matrimony will not produce any essential change in your 
situation. It will produce no greater or different intercourse 
than now exists. Helena is on the brink of a gulf which 
1 shudder to look upon. I believe that you will not injure 
yourself by snatching her from it. I am sure that you will 
confer an inexpressible benefit upon her. Let me then per- 
suade you to do her and yourself justice. 

No persuasion, said Ormond, after recovering from a fit 
of thoughtfulness, is needful for this end ; I only want to be 
convinced. You have decided, but I fear hastily. By 
what inscrutable influences are our steps guided. Come, 
proceed in your exhortations. Argue witli the utmost clear- 
ness and cogency. Arm yourself with all the irresistibles 
of eloquence. Yet you are building nothing. You are 
only demolishing. Your argument is one thing. Its ten- 
dency is another ; and is the reverse of all you expect and 
desfre. My assent will be refused with an obstinacy pro- 
portioned to tlie force that you exert to obtain it, and to the 
just application of that force. 

I see, replied the lady, smiling and leaving her seat, you 
can talk in riddles, as well as other people. This visit has 
been too long. I shall, indeed, be sorry, if my interference, 
instead of serving my friend, has injured her. I have acted 
an uncommon, and, as it may seem, an ambiguous part. I 
shall be contented with construing my motives in my owti 
way. I wish you a good evening. 

’Tis false, cried he, sternly, you do not wish it. 

How Exclaimed the astonished Constantia. 

I will put your sincerity to the test. Allow me to spend 
this evening in your company ; tlien it will be well spent, and 
I shall believe your wishes sincere. Else, continued he, 
changing his affected austerity into a smile, Constantia is a liai*. 

You are a singular man. I hardly know how to under- 
stand you, 


ORMOND. 


13t 

Well. Words are made to carry meanings. You shall have 
them in abundance. Your house is your citadel. I will not 
enter it without leave. Permit me to visit you when I please. 
But that is too much. It is more than I would allow you. 
When will you permit me to visit you 

I cannot answer when I do not understand. You clothe 
your thoughts in a garb so uncouth, that I know not in what 
light they are to be viewed. 

Well, now, I thought you understood my language, and 
were an English woman, but I will use another. Shall I 
have the honor (bowing with a courtly air of supplication) 
of occasionally paying my respects to you at your own dwell- 
ing. It would be cruel to condemn those who have the 
happiness of knowing Miss Dudley, to fashionable restraints. 
At w’hat hour will she be least incommoded by a visitant 7 
I am as little pleased with formalities, replied the lady, as 
you are. My friends I cannot see too often. They need 
to consult merely their owm convenience. Those who are 
not my friends I cannot see too seldom. You have only to 
establish your title to that name, and your welcome at all 
times, is sure. Till then you must not look for it. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Here ended this conference. She had, by no means, 
suspected the manner in which it would be conducted. All 
punctilios were trampled under foot, by the impetuosity ot 
Ormond. Things were, at once, and without delay, placed 
upon a certain footing. The point, which ordinary persons 
would have employed months in attaining, was reached in a 
moment. While these incidents were fresh in her memory, 
they were accompanied with a sort of trepidation, the off- 
spring at once of pleasure and surprise. 

Oi’mond had not deceived her expectations, but hearsay 
and personal examination, however uniform their testimony 
may be, produce a very different impression. In her pre- 
sent reflections, Helena and her lover approached to the front 
of the stage, and were viewed with equd perspicuity. One 


138 


ORMOND. 


consequence of this was, that their characters were more 
powerfully contrasted with each other, and the ilegibility of 
marriage, appeared not quite so incontestible as before. 

Was not equality implied in this compact Marriage is 
an instrument of pleasure or pain in proportion as tliis equal- 
ity is more or less. What, but tire fascination of Ids senses 
is it, that ties Ormond to Helena. Is this a basis on which 
marriage may properly be built 

If tilings had not gone tlius far, the impropriety of mar- 
riage could not be doubted ; but, at present, there is a choice 
of evils, and tliat may now be desirable, wliich at a former 
period, and in different circumstances, would have been 
clearly otherwise. 

The evils of the present connexion are know ; those of 
marriage are future and contingent ; Helena cannot be the 
object of a genuine and lasting passion ; anotlier may ; tliis 
is not merely possible ; nothing is more likely to happen. 
This event, therefore, ought to be included in our calculation. 
There would be a material deficiency without it. What was 
the amount of the misery that would, in this case, ensue. 

Constantia was qualified, beyond most others, to form an 
adequate conception of this misery. One of the ingredi- 
ents in her character was a mild and steadfast enthusaism. 
Her sensibilities to social pleasure, and her conceptions of 
the benefits to flow from the conformity and concurrence of 
intentions and wishes, heightening and refining the sensual 
passion, were exquisite. 

There, indeed, were evils, the foresight of which tended 
to prevent them, but was there wisdom in creating obstacles 
in the way of a suitable alliance. Before we act, we must 
consider not only the misery produced, but tlie happiness 
precluded by our measures. 

In no case, perhaps, is the decision of a human being 
impartial, or totally itninfluenced by sinister and selfish mo- 
tives. If Constantia surpassed others, it was not, because, 
her motives were pure, but, because they possessed more 
of purity than those of others. Sinister considerations flow 
in upon us through imperceptible channels, and modify our 
thoughts in numberless ways, without our being truly con- 
scious of their presence. Constantia was young, and her 
heart was open at a thousand pores, to the love of excellence. 


ORMOND. 


139 

The image of Ormond occupied the chief place in her 
fancy, and was endowed with attractive and venerable quali- 
ties. A bias was hence created that swayed her thoughts, 
though she knew not that they were swayed. To this 
might justly be imputed, some part of that reluctance which 
she now felt to give Ormond to Helena. But this was not 
sufficient to turn the scale. That wliich had previously 
mounted, was indeed heavier than before, but ffiis addition 
did not enable it to outweigh its opposite. Marriage was 
still the best upon the whole, but her heart was tortured 
to think that, best as it was, it abounded with so many evils. 

On the evening of the next day, Ormond entered with 
careless abruptness, Constantia’s sitting apartment. He 
was introduced to her fatlier. A general and unrestrained 
conversation immediately took place. Ormond addressed 
Mr. Dudley with tlie familiarity of an old acquaintance. In 
tliree minutes all embarrassment was discarded. The lady 
and her visitant were accurate observers of each other. In 
the remarks of tlie latter, and his vein was an abundant one, 
tliere was a freedom and originality altogether new to his 
hearers. In his easiest and sprightliest sallies were tokens 
of a mind habituated to profound and extensive views. His 
associations were formed on a comprehensive scale. 

He pretended to nothing, and studied the concealments of 
ambiguity more in reality than in appearance. Constantia, 
however, discovered a sufficient resemblance between their 
theories of virtue and duty. The difference between them 
lay in the inferences arbitrarily deduced, and in wliich two 
persons may vary without end, and yet never be repugnant. 
Constantia delighted her companion by the facility with 
which she entered into his meaning, the sagacity she dis- 
played in drawing out his hints, circumscribing his conjec- 
tures, and thwarting or qualifying his maxims. The scene 
was generally replete with ardor and contention, and yet the 
impression left on tlie mind of Ormond was full of harmony. 
Her discourse tended to rouse him from his lethargy, to 
furnish him witli powerful excitements, and tlie time spent in 
her company, seemed like a doubling of existence. 

The comparison could not but suggest itself, between this 
scene and that exhibited by Helena. With the latter volup- 
tuous blandishments, musical prattle, and silent but express- 


ORMOND. 


140 

ive homage, composed a banquet delicious for a while, but 
whose sweetness now began to pall upon his taste. It suppli- 
ed him with no new ideas, and hindered him, by the lulling 
sensations it inspired, from profiting by his former acquisi- 
tions. Helena was beautiful. Apply the scale, and not a mem- 
ber was found inelegantly disposed, or negligently moulded. 
Not a curve that was blemished by an angle or ruffled by 
asperities. The irradiations of her eyes were able to dis- 
solve the knottiest fibres, and their azure was serene beyond 
any that nature had elsewhere exhibited. Over the rest of 
her form the glistening and rosy hues were diffused with 
prodigal luxuriance, and mingled in endless and wanton 
variety. Yet this image had fewer attractions even to the 
senses than that of Constantia. So great is the difference 
between forms animated by different degrees of intelligence. 

The interviews of Ormond and Constantia grew more 
frequent. The progress which they made in the knowledge 
of each other was rapid. Two positions, that were favorite 
ones with him, were quickly subverted. He was suddenly 
changed, from being one of the calumniators of the female 
sex, to one of its warmest eulogists. This was a point on 
which Constantia had ever been a vigorous disputant, but 
her arguments, in their direct tendency, would never have 
made a convert of this man. Their force, intrinsically con- 
sidered, was notliing. He drew his conclusions from inci- 
dental circumstances. Her reasonings might be fallacious 
or valid, but they were so composed, arranged and delivered, 
were drawn from such sources, and accompanied with such 
illustrations, as plainly testified a manlike energy in the rea- 
soner. In this indirect and circuitous way, her point was 
unanswerably established. 

Your reasoning is bad, he would say ; every one of your 
conclusions is false. Not a smgle allegation but may be 
easily confuted, and yet I allow that your position is incon- 
trovertibly proved by them. How bewildered is that man 
who never thinks for himself ! who rejects a principle merely 
because tlie arguments brought in support of it are insuffi- 
cient. I must not reject the truth, because anotlier has 
unjustifiably adopted it. I want to reach a certain hill-top. 
Another has reached it before me, but the ladder he used is 
too weak to bear me. What then 9 Am I to stay below 


ORMOND. 141 

on that account 9 No ; I have only to construct one suitable 
to the purpose, and of strength sufficient. 

A second maxim had never been confuted till now. It 
inculcated the insignificance and hollowmess of love. No 
pleasure he thought was to be despised for its owm sake. 
Every thing was good in its place, but amorous gratifications 
were to be degraded to the bottom of the catalogue. The 
enjoyments of music and landscape, were of a much higher 
order. Epicurism itself was entided to more respect. Love, 
in itself, was in liis opinion, of little worffi, and only of im- 
portance as the source of the most terrible of intellectual 
maladies. Sexual sensations associating themselves, in a 
certain way, with our ideas, beget a disease, which has, 
indeed, found no place in the catalogue, but is a case of 
more entire subversion and confusion of mind than any 
other. The victim is callous to the sentiments of honor and 
shame, insensible to the most palpable distinctions of right 
and wrong, a systematic opponent of testimony, and obstinate 
perverter of truth. 

Ormond was partly right. Madpess like death can be 
averted by no foresight or previous contrivance. This pro- 
bably is one of its characteristics. He that witnesses its 
influence on another, with most horror, and most fervently 
deprecates its ravages, is not therefore more safe. Tliis 
circumstance was realized in the history of Ormond. 

This infatuation, if it may so be called, was gradual in its 
progress. The sensations which Helena was now able to 
excite, were of a new kind. Her power was not merely 
weakened, but her endeavors counteracted their own end. 
Her fondness was rejected with disdain, or borne with re- 
luctance. The lady was not slow in perceiving this 
change. The stroke of death would have been more ac- 
ceptable. His own reflections were too tormenting, to make 
liim willing to discuss them in words. He was not aware of 
the effects produced by this change in his demeanor, till 
informed of it by herself. 

One evening he displayed symptoms of uncommon dissat- 
isfaction. Her tenderness was unable to dispel it. He 
complained of want of sleep. Tliis afforded a hint, which 
she drew forth into one of her enchanting ditties. Habit 
had almost conferred upon her the power of spontaneous 


ORMOND. 


142 

poesy, and while she pressed his forehead to her bosom, she 
warbled forth a strain airy and exuberant in numbers, tender 
and extatic in its imagery. 

Sleep, extend thy downy pinion. 

Hasten from thy Cell with speed ; 

Spread around thy soft dominion ; 

Much those browns thy balmy presence need. 

Wave thy hand of slumberous power. 

Moistened in Lethean dews. 

To chaim the busy spirits of the hour. 

And brighten memory’s malignant hues. 

Thy mantle, dark and starless, cast 
Over my selected youth ; 

Bury, in thy womb, the mournful past. 

And soften, with thy dreams, th’ asperities of truth. 

The changeful hues of his impassioned sleep. 

My office it shall be to watch the while ; 

With thee, my love, when fancy prompts, to weep. 

And when thou smile’st, to smile. 

But sleep ! I charge thee, visit not these eyes. 

Nor raise thy dark pavilion here, \ 

’Till morrow from the cave of ocean rise. 

And whisper timeful joy in nature’s ear. 

But mutely let me lie, and sateless gaze 
At all the soul that in his visage sits. 

While spirits of harmonious air, 

Here her voice sunk, and the line terminated in a sigh. 
Her museful ardors were chilled by the looks of Ormond. 
Absorbed in his own thoughts, he appeared scarcely to at- 
tend to tliis strain. His sternness was proof against her 
accustomed fascinations. At length she pathetically com- 
plained of his coldness, and insinuated her suspicions, that 
his affection was transferred to another object. He started 
from her embrace, and after two or three turns across the 
room, he stood before her. His large eyes were steadfastly 
fixed upon her face. 

Aye, said he, thou hast guessed right. The love, poor 
as it was, tliat I had for thee, is gone. Henceforth tliou art 
desolate indeed. Would to God thou wert wise. Thy 
woes are but beginning ; I fear they will terminate fatally ; 
if so, the catastrophe cannot come too quickly. 


ORMOND. 


143 

1 disdain to appeal to thy justice, Helena, to remind thee 
of conditions solemnly and explicitly assumed. Shall thy 
blood he upon thy own head 9 No. I will bear it myselL 
Though the load would crush a mountain, T will bear it. 

I cannot help it ; I make not myself ; 1 am moulded by 
circumstances ; whether I shall love thee or not, is no longer 
in my own choice. Marriage is, indeed, still in my power. 
I may give thee my name, and share with thee my fortune. 
Will these content thee 9 Thou canst not partake of my 
love. Thou canst have no part in my tenderness. These 
are reserved for another more worthy than thou. 

But no. Thy state is, to the last degree, forlorn ; even 
marriage is denied thee. Tliou wast contented to take me 
without it ; to dispense with the name of wife, but the being 
who has displaced thy image in my heart, is of a different 
class. Slie will be to me a wife, or nothing, and I must be 
her husband, or perish. 

Do not deceive thyself, Helena. I know what it is in 
which thou hast placed thy felicity. Life is worth retaining 
by thee, but on one condition. I know the incurableness of 
thy infirmity ; but be not deceived. Thy happiness is rav- 
ished from thee. The condition on which tliou consentedst 
to live, is annulled. I love thee no longer. 

No truth was ever more delicious ; none was ever more 
detestable. I fight against conviction, and I cling to it. 
That I love thee no longer, is at once a subject of joy and of 
mourning. I struggle to believe thee superior to this shock ; 
that thou wilt be happy though deserted by me. Whatever 
be thy destiny, my reason will not allow me to be miserable 
on that account. Yet I would give the world ; I would 
forfeit every claim but that which I hope upon the heart of 
Constantia, to be sure that thy tranquillity will survive this 
stroke. 

But let come what will, look no longer to me for offices 
of love. Henceforth, all intercouse of tenderness ceases. 
Perhaps all personal intercourse whatever. But though this 
good be refused, thou art sure of independence. I will 
guard thy ease and thy honor with a father’s scrupulousness. 
Would to heaven a sister could be created by adoption. I 
am willing, for thy sake, to be an impostor. 1 will own thee 
to tlie world for my sister, and carry thee whither the cheat 


ORMOND. 


144 

shall never be detected. I would devote my whole life to 
prevarication and falsehood, for thy sake, if that would suf- 
fice to make thee happy. 

To this speech Helena had nothing to answer. Her sobs 
and tears choked all utterance. She hid her face with her 
handkerchief, and sat powerless and overwhelmed with des- 
pair. Ormond traversed the room uneasily. Sometimes 
moving to and fro with quick steps, sometimes standing and 
eyeing her with looks of compassion. At length he spoke. 

It is time to leave you. Tliis is the first night that you 
will spend in dreary solitude. I know it will be sleepless and 
full of agony ; but the sentence cannot be recalled. Hence- 
forth regard me as a brotlier. I will prove myself one. All 
other claims are swallowed up in a superior affection. — In 
saying this, he left the house, and almost without intending it, 
found himself in a few minutes at Mr. Dudley’s door. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The politeness of Melbourne had somewhat abated Mr. 
Dudley’s aversion to society. He allowed himself sometimes 
to comply witli urgent invitations. On this evening he hap- 
pened to be at the house of that gentleman. Ormond en- 
tered, and found Constantia alone. An interview of this 
kiiid was seldom enjoyed, though earnestly wished for by 
Constantia, who was eager to renew the subject of her first 
conversation with Ormond. I have already explained the 
situation of her mind. All her wishes were concentred in 
the marriage of Helena. The eligibility of this scheme, in 
every view which she took of it, appeared in a stronger light. 
She was not aware that any new obstacle had arisen. She 
was free from the consciousness of any secret bias. Much 
less did her modesty suspect, that she herself would prove 
an insuperable impediment to this plan. 

There was more than usual solemnity in Ormond’s de- 
meanor. After he was seated, he continued, contrary to 
his custom, to be silent. These singularities were not unob- 
served by Constantia. They did not, however, divert her 
from her purpose. 


ORMOND. 


145 

1 am glad to see you, said she. We so seldom enjoy the 
advantage of a private interview. I have much to say to 
you. You authorize me to deliberate on your actions, and, 
in some measure, to prescribe to you. This is a province 
which I hope to discharge with integrity and diligence. I 
am convinced that Helena’s happiness and your own, can be 
secured in one way only. I will emulate your candor, and 
come at once to the point. Why have you delayed so long 
the justice that is due to this helpless and lovely girl*? There 
are a tliousand reasons why you should think of no other 
alternative. You have been pleased to repose some degree 
of confidence in my judgment. Hear my full and delibe- 
rate opinion. Make Helena your wife. This is the unequi- 
vocal prescription of your duty. 

This address was heard by Ormond without surprise ; 
but his countenance betrayed the acuteness of his feelings. 
The bitterness that overflowed liis heart, was perceptible in 
his tone when he spoke. 

Most egregiously are you deceived. Such is the line witli 
which human capacity presumes to fathom futurity. With 
all your discernment, you do not see that marriage would 
effectually destroy me. You do not see that, whether bene- 
ficial, or otherwise, in its effects, marriage is impossible. You 
are merely prompting me to suicide ; but how shall I inflict 
the wound Where is the weapon ? See you not that I am 
powerless Leap, say you, into the flames. See you not 
that I am fettered 9 Will a mountain move at your bidding, 
sooner than I in the path, which you prescribe to me 

This speech was inexplicable. She pressed liim to speak 
less enigmatically. Had he formed his resolution If so, 
arguments and remonstrances were superfluous. Without 
noticing her interrogatories, he continued. 

I am too hasty in condemning you. You judge, not 
against, but without knowledge. When sufficiently inform- 
ed, your decision will be right. Yet how can you be igno- 
rant ! Can you, for a moment, contemplate yourself and me, 
and not perceive an insuperable bar to this union 

You place me, said Constantia, in a very disagreeable 
predicament. I have not deserved this treatment from you. 
This is an unjustifiable deviation from plain dealing. Of 
13 


ORMOND. 


146 

what impediment do you speak. I can safely say that I 
know of none. 

Well, resumed he, with augmented eagerness, I must 
supply you with knowledge. I repeat, that I perfectly rely 
on the rectitude of your judgment. Summon all your saga- 
city and disinterestedness, and choose for me. You know 
in what light Helena has been viewed by me. I have ceas- 
ed to view her in this light. She has become an object of 
indifference. Nay, I am not certain that I do not hate her. 
Not indeed for her own sake, but because I love another. 
Shall I marry her whom I hate, when there exists one whom 
I love with unconquerable ardor 7 

Constantia was thunderstruck with this intelligence. She 
looked at him with some expression of doubt. How is this ? 
said she. Why did you not tell me this before ? 

When 1 last talked with you on this subject, I knew it not 
myself. It has occurred since. I have seized the first oc- 
casion that has offered, to inform you of it. Say now, since 
such is my condition, ought Helena to be my vidfe ? 

Constantia was silent. Her heart bled for what she fore- 
saw would be the sufferings and forlorn destiny of Helena. 
She had not courage to inquire further into this new en- 
gagement. 

I wait for your answer, Constantia. Shall 1 defraud my- 
self of all the happiness which would accrue, from a match 
of inclination ? Shall I put fetters on my usefulness ? Tliis 
is the style in which you speak. Shall I preclude all the 
good to others, that would flow from a suitable alliance f 
Shall I abjure the woman I love, and marry her whom I 
hate f 

Hatred, replied the lady, is a harsh word. Helena has 
not deserved that you should hate her. I own this is a per- 
plexing circumstance. It would be wrong to determine has- 
tily. Suppose you give yourself to Helena, will more than 
yourself be injured by it Who is this lady Will she be 
rendered unhappy by a determination in favor of another ^ 
This is a point of the utmost importance. 

At these words, Ormond forsook liis seat, and advanced 
close up to Constantia. You say true. This is a point of 
inexpressible importance. It would be presumption in me to 
decide. That is the lady’s own province. And now, say 


ORMOND. 


14T 

ti’uly, are you willing to accept Ormond with all his faults. 
Who but yourself could be mistress of all the springs of my 
soul I know the sternness of your probity. This discoveiy 
will only make you more strenuously the friend of Helena. 
Yet why should you not shun either extreme. Lay yourself 
out of view. And yet, perhaps, the happiness of Constan- 
tia is not unconcerned in this question. Is there no part of 
me in which you discover your own likeness Am I de- 
ceived, or is it an incontrolable destiny that unites us 

This declaration was truly unexpected by Constantia. 
She gathered from it nothing but excitements of grief. Af- 
ter some pause, she said. This appeal to me has made no 
change in my opinion. I still think that justice requires you 
to become the husband of Helena. As to me, do you think 
my happiness rests upon so slight a foundation I cannot 
love, but when my understanding points out to me the pro- 
priety of love. Ever since I have known you, I have look- 
ed upon you as rightfully belonging to another. Love 
could not take place in my circumstances. Yet I will not 
conceal from you my sentiments. I am not sure that in dif- 
ferent circumstances, I should not have loved. I am ac- 
quainted with your worth. I do not look for a faultless man. 
I have met with none whose blemishes were fewer. 

It matters not, however, what I should have been. I can- 
not interfere, in this case, with the claims of my friend. I 
have no passion to struggle with. I hope, in every vicissi- 
tude, to enjoy your esteem, and nothing more. There is 
but one way in which mine can be secured, and that is by 
espousing this unhappy girL 

No, exclaimed Ormond. Requhe not impossibilities. 
Helena can never be any thing to me. I should, with un- 
speakably more willingness, assail my own life. 

What, said the lady, will Helena think of this sudden and 
dreadful change. I cannot bear to think upon the feelings 
tliat tliis information will excite. 

She knows it already. I have this moment left her. I 
explained to her, in few words, my motives, and assured her 
of my unalterable resolution. I have vowed never to see 
her more, but as a brother, and this vow she has just heard. 

Constantia could not suppress her astonishment and com- 
passion at this intelligence. No, surely, you could not be so 


148 


ORMOND. 


cruel ! And this was done with your usual abruptness, I 
suppose. Precipitate and implacable man! Cannot you 
foresee the effects of this madness 9 You have planted a dag- 
ger in her heart. You have disappointed me. I did not 
think you could act so inhumanly. 

Nay, beloved Constantia, be not so liberal of your re- 
proaches. Would you have me deceive her ‘I She must 
shortly have known it. Could the truth be told too soon 9 

Much too soon, replied the lady, fervently. I have al- 
ways condemned the maxims by which you act. Your 
scheme is headlong and barbarous. Could you not regard, 
with some little compassion, that love wliich sacrificed for 
your unworthy sake, honest fame and the peace of virtue 9 
Is she not a poor outcast, goaded by compunction, and hoot- 
ed at by a malignant and misjudging world, and who was it 
that reduced her to this deplorable condition 9 For whose 
sake, did she willingly consent to brave evils, by which the 
stoutest heart is appalled 9 Did this argue no greatness of 
mind 9 Who ever surpassed her in fidelity and tenderness 9 
But thus has she been rewarded. I shudder to think what 
may be the event. Her courage cannot possibly support 
her, against treatment so harsh ; so perversely and wantonly 
cruel. Heaven grant, that you are not shortly made, bitter- 
ly to lament this rashness. 

Ormond was penetrated with tliese reproaches. They 
persuaded him for a moment that his deed was wrong ; that 
he had not unfolded his intentions to Helena, with a suitable 
degree of gentleness and caution. Little more was said on 
this occasion. Constantia exhorted him, in the most earnest 
and pathetic manner, to return and recant, or extenuate his 
former declarations. He could not be brought to promise 
compliance. Wlten he parted from her, however, he was 
half resolved to act as she advised. Solitary reflection 
made him change this resolution, and he returned to his own 
house. 

During the night, he did little else, than ruminate on the 
events of the preceding evening. He entertained little 
doubt of his ultimate success with Constantia. She gratified 
him in nothing, but left him every thing to hope. She had 
liitherto, it seems, regarded him with indifference, but tliis 
had been sufficiently explained. That conduct would be 


ORMONt). 


pursued, and that passion be entertained, which her judg- 
ment should previously approve. What then was the obsta- 
cle It originated in the claims of Helena, but what were 
these claims ? It was fully ascertained that he should never be 
united to this girl. If so, the end contemplated by Con- 
stantia, and for the sake of which only, his application waS 
rejected, could never be obtained. Unless her rejection of 
him, could procure a husband for her friend, it would, on 
her own principles, be improper and superfluous. 

What was to be done with Helena ? It was a terrible al- 
ternative to which he was reduced ; to marry her or see her 
perish. But was this alternative quite sure ? Could not she, 
by time or by judicious treatment, be reconciled to her lot f 
It was to be feared that he had not made a suitable begin- 
ning ; and yet, perhaps, it was most expedient, that a hasty 
and abrupt sentence should be succeeded by forbearance and 
lenity. He regretted his precipitation, and though unused 
to the melting mood, tears were wrung from him, by the 
idea of the misery which he had probably occasioned. He 
was determined to repair his misconduct as speedily as pos- 
sible, and to pay her a conciliating visit the next morning. 

He went early to her house. He was informed by the 
servant that her mistress had not yet risen. Was it usual, he 
asked, for her to lie so late ? No, he was answered ; she 
never knew it happen before, but she supposed her mistress 
was not well. She was just !going into her chamber to see 
what was tlie matter. 

Why, said Ormond, do you suppose that she is sick ? 

She was poorly last night. About nine o’clock she sent 
out for some physic to make her sleep. 

To make her sleep exclaimed Ormond, in a faltering 
and affrighted accent. 

Yes, she said she wanted it for that. So I went to the 
pothecary’s. When I come back, she was very poorly in- 
deed. I asked her if I mightn’t set up with her. No she 
says ; I do not want any body. You may go to bed as soon 
as you please, and tell Fabian to do the same. I shall not 
want you again. 

What did you buy 9 

Some kind of water, laud’num I think they call it. She 
13 * 


150 


ORMON0. 


wrote it down and I carried the paper to Mr. Eckhart’s and 
he gave it to me in a bottle, and I gave it to my mistress. 

’Tis well. Retire. I will see how she is myself. 

Ormond had conceived himself fortified against every 
disaster. He looked for notliing but evil, and, therefore, in 
ordinary cases, regarded its approach without fear or sur- 
prise. Now, however, he found that his tremors would not 
be stilled. His perturbations increased witli every step that 
brought him nearer to her chamber. He knocked, but no 
answer was returned. He opened, advanced to the bed- 
side, and drew back the curtains. He shrunk from the 
spectacle that presented itself — ^Was this the Helena, that a 
few hours before, was blithsome with health and radiant 
with beauty ! Her visage was serene, but sunken and pale. 
Death was in every line of it. To his tremulous and hur- 
ried scrutiny every limb was rigid and cold. 

The habits of Ormond tended to obscure the appearances, 
if not to deaden the emotions of sorrow. He was so much 
accustomed to the frustration of well intended efforts, and 
confided so much in his own integrity, that he was not easily 
disconcerted. He had merely to advert, on this occasion, 
to the tumultuous state of his feelings, in order to banish their 
confusion and restore himself to calm. Well, said he, as he 
dropped the curtain and turned towards another part of the 
room, this, without doubt, is a rueful spectacle. Can it be 
helped Is diere in man the power of recalling her 
There is none such in me. 

She is gone. Well tlien, she is gone. If she were fool 
enough to die, I am not fool enough to follow her. I am 
determined to live, and be happy notwithstanding. Why not9 

Yet, this is a piteous sight. What is impossible to undo, 
might be easily prevented. A piteous spectacle ! But what 
else, on an ampler scale, is the universe 9 Nature is a theatre 
of suffering. What corner is unvisited by calamity and 
pain 9 I have chosen as became me. I would rather pre- 
cede thee to the grave, than live to be thy husband. 

Thou hast done my work for me. Tliou hast saved 
thyself and me from a thousand evils. Thou hast acted as 
seemed to thee best, and I am satisfied. 

Hast thou decided erroneously They that know thee, 
•need not marvel at that. Endless have been the proofs of 


ORMOND. 


151 

tliy frailty. In favor of this last act, something may be said. 
It is the last thou wilt ever commit. Others only will expe- 
rience its effects ; thou hast, at least, provided for thy own 
safety. 

But what is here 9 A letter for me 9 Had thy under- 
standing been as prompt as thy fingers, I could have borne 
with thee. I can easily divine the contents of this epistle. 

He opened it, and found the tenor to be as follows : 

“ You did not use, my dear friend, to part with me in this 
manner. You never before treated me so roughly. I am 
sorry, indeed I am, that I ever offended you. Could you 
suppose that I intended it ? And if you knew that I meant 
not offence, why did you take offence 

“ I am very unhappy, for I have lost you, my friend. You 
will never see me more, you say. That is very hard. I 
have deserved it to be sure, but I do not know how it has 
happened. Nobody more desired to please than I have 
done. Morning, noon and night, it was my only study ; but 
you will love me no more ; you will see me no more. For- 
give me, my friend, but I must say it is very hard. 

“ You said rightly ; I do not wish to live without my friend. 
I have spent my life happily, heretofore. ’Tis true, there have 
been transient uneasinesses, but your love was a reward and 
a cure for every thing. I desired nothing better in this 
world. Did you ever hear me murmur No ; I was not so 
unjust. My lot was happy, infinitely beyond my deserving. 
I merited not to be loved by you. O that I had suitable 
words to express my gratitude, for your kindness ! but this 
last meeting — ^how different from that which went before 
Yet even then, there was something on your brow like 
discontent, which I could not warble nor whisper away, as I 
used to do. But, sad as this was, it was nothing like the last. 

“ Could Ormond be so stem and so terrible You knew 
that I would die, but you need not have talked as if I were 
in the way, and as if you had rather I should die than live. 
But one Aing I rejoice at ; I am a poor silly girl, but Con- 
stantia is a noble and accomplished one. Most joyfully do 
I resign you to her, my dear friend. You say you Jove her. 
She need not be afraid of accepting you. There will be no 
danger of your preferring another to her. It was very natu- 


152 


ORMOND. 


ral and very right for you to prefer her to me. She and 
you will be happy in each other. It is this that sweetens 
the cup I am going to drink. Never did I go to sleep, with 
more good will, than I now go to death. Fare you well, 
my dear friend.” 

This letter was calculated to make a deeper impression on 
Ormond, than even the sight of Helena’s corpse. It was in 
vain, for some time, that he endeavored to reconcile him- 
self to this event. It was seldom that he was able to forget 
it. He was obliged to exert aU his energies, to enable him 
to support the remembrance. The task was, of course, 
rendered easier by time. 

It was immediately requisite to attend to the disposal of the 
corpse. He felt himself unfit for this mournful office. He 
was willing to relieve himself from it, by any expedient. 
Helena’s next neighbor, was an old lady, whose scruples 
made her shun all direct intercourse with this unhappy girl ; 
yet she had performed many acts of neighborly kindness. 
She readily obeyed the summons of Ormond, on this occa- 
sion, to take charge of affairs, till another should assume it. 
Ormond returned home, and sent the following note to 
Constantia. 

“You have predicted aright. Helena is dead. In a 
mind like yours every grief will be suspended, and every 
regard absorbed in the attention due to the remains of this 
unfortunate girl. I cannot attend to them.” 

Constantia was extremely shocked by this intelligence, 
but she was not unmindful of her duty. She prepared her- 
self with mournful alacrity, for the performance of it. Every 
thing that the occasion demanded, was done with diligence 
and care. Till this was accomplished, Ormond could not 
prevail upon himself to appear upon the stage. He was in- 
formed of tliis by a note from Constantia, who requested 
liim to take possession of the unoccupied dwelling and its 
furniture. 

Among the terms of his contract ^vith Helena, Ormond 
had voluntarily inserted the exclusive property of a house 
and its furniture in this city, with fimds adequate to her 


ORMOND. 


153 

plentiful maintenance. These he had purchased and trans- 
ferred to her. To tliis he had afterwards added a rural 
retreat, in the midst of. spacious and well cultivated fields, 
three miles from Perth- Amboy, and seated on the right bank 
of the sound. It is proper to mention that this farm was 
formerly the property of Mr. Dudley ; had been fitted up 
by him, and used as his summer abode during his prosperity. 
In tlie division of his property it had fallen to one of his 
creditors, from whom it had been purchased by Ormond. 
This circumstance, in conjunction with the love, which she 
bore to Constantia, had suggested to Helena a scheme, which 
her w^ant of foresight would, in different circumstances, have 
occasioned her to overlook. It was that of making her tes- 
tament, by which she bequeathed all that she possessed to 
her friend. This was not done without the knowledge and 
cheerful concurrence of Ormond, who, together with Mel- 
bourne and another respectable citizen, were named execu- 
tors. Melbourne and his friend were induced by their res- 
pect for Constantia, to consent to this nomination. 

This had taken place before Ormond and Constantia had 
been introduced to each other. After this event, Ormond 
had sometimes been employed in contriving means for se- 
curing to his new friend and her father, a subsistence, more 
certain than the will of Helena could afford. Her death he 
considered as an event equally remote and undesirable. 
Tliis event, however unexpectedly, had now happened, and 
precluded the necessity of further consideration on this head. 

Constantia could not but accept this bequest. Had it 
been her wish to decline, it was not in her power, but she 
justly regarded the leisure and independence thus conferred 
upon her, as inestimable benefits. It was a source of un- 
bounded satisfaction on her fatlier’s account, who was once 
more seated in the bosom of affluence. Perhaps in a ra- 
tional estimate, one of the most fortunate events that could 
have befallen those persons, was that period of adversity 
through which they had been doomed to pass. Most of the 
defects that adhered to the character of Mr. Dudley, had, 
by this means, been exterminated. He was now cured of 
those prejudices which his early prosperity had instilled, and 
which had flowed from luxurious indulgences. He had 


ORMOND. 


154 

learned to estimate himself at his true value, and to synlpa- 
tliize with sufferings which he himself had partaken. 

It was easy to perceive in what light Constantia was re* 
garded by her father. He never reflected on his relation to 
her without rapture. Her qualities were the objects of his 
adoration. He resigned himself with pleasure to her gui- 
dance. The chain of subordination and duties was reversed. 
By tlie ascendancy of her genius and wisdom, the province 
of protection and the tribute of homage, had devolved upon 
her. This had resulted from incessant experience of the 
wisdom of her measures, and tlie spectacle of her fortitude 
and skill in every emergency. 

It seemed as if but one evil adhered to the condition of 
this man. His blindness was an impediment to knowledge 
and enjoyment, of wliich, the utmost to be hoped was, that 
he should regard it without pungent regret, and that he should 
sometimes forget it. That his mind should occasionally 
stray into foreign paths, and lose itself in sprightly conver- 
sations, or benign reveries. Tliis evil, however was, by no 
means remediless. 

A surgeon of uncommon skill had lately arrived from 
Europe. He was one of the numerous agents and depend- 
ents of Ormond, and had been engaged to abdicate liis native 
country for purposes widely remote from his profession. 
The fii’st use that was made of him, was to introduce him 
to Mr. Dudley. The diseased organs were critically exam- 
ined, and the patient was, with considerable difficulty, pre- 
vailed upon to undergo the necessary operation. His suc- 
cess corresponded wifli Constantia’s wishes, and her father 
was once more restored to the enjoyment of light. 

These were auspicious events — Constantia held herself 
amply repaid by them, for allthat she had suffered. These suf- 
ferings had indeed been light, when comj)ared with the effects 
usually experienced by others in a similar condition. Her 
wisdom had extracted its sting from adversity, and without 
allowing herself to feel much of the evils of its reign, had 
employed it as an instrument by which the sum of her present 
happiness was increased. Few suffered less, in the midst 
of poverty, than she. No one ever extracted more felicity 
from the prosperous reverse. 


ORMOND. 


155 


CHAPTER XVm. 

When time had somewhat mitigated the memory of the 
late disaster, the intercourse between Ormond and Constantia 
was renewed. The lady did not overlook her obligations to 
her friend. It was to lum that she was indebted for her 
father’s restoration to sight, and to whom both owed, essen- 
tially, though indirectly, their present affluence. In her mind, 
gratitude was no perverse or ignoble principle. She viewed 
this man as the author of extensive benefits, of which her 
situation enabled her to judge with more accuracy than others. 
It created no bias on her judgment, or, at least, none of 
which she was sensible. Her equity was perfectly unfetter- 
ed, and she decided in a way contrary to his inclination, 
with as little scruple as if the benefits had been received, 
not by herself, but by him. She, indeed, intended his ben- 
efit, diough she thwarted his inclinations. 

She had few visitants besides himself. Their interviews 
were daily and unformal. The fate of Helena never pro- 
duced any reproaches on her part. She saw the useless- 
ness of recrimination, not only because she desired to pro- 
duce emotions different from those which invective is adapted 
to excite, but because it was more just to soothe than to ex- 
asperate, the inquietudes which haunted him. 

She now enjoyed leisure. She had always been solicit- 
ous for mental improvement. Any means subservient to 
tliis end were valuable. The conversation of Ormond was 
an inexhaustible fund. By the variety of topics and the 
excitements to reflection it supplied, a more plenteous influx 
of knowledge was produced, than could have flowed from 
any other source. There was no end to the detailing of 
facts, and the canvassing of tlieories. 

I have already said, that Ormond was engaged in schemes 
of an arduous and elevated nature. These were the 
topics of epistolary discussion between him and a certain 
number of coadjutors, in different parts of the world. Li 
general discourse, it was proper to maintain a uniform 
silence respecting tiiese, not only because they involved prin- 
ciples and views, remote from vulgar apprehension, bui 


ORMONt). 


156 

because their success, in some measure, depended on their 
secrecy. He could not give a stronger proof of his confi- 
dence in the sagacity and steadiness of Constantia than he 
now gave, by imparting to her his schemes, and requesting 
her advice and assistance in the progress of them. 

His disclosures, however, were imperfect. What know- 
ledge was imparted, instead of appeasing, only tended to 
inflame her curiosity. His answers to her inquiries were 
prompt, and at first siglitj sufficiently explicit, but upon re- 
consideration, an obscurity seemed to gather round them, to 
be dispelled by new interrogatories. These, in like manner, 
effected a momentary purpose, but were sure speedily to 
lead into new conjectures, and re-immerse her in doubts. 
The task was always new, was always on die point of 
being finished, and always to be re-commenced. 

Ormond aspired to notliing more ardently than to hold 
the reins of opinion. To exercise absolute power over the 
conduct of others, not by constraining their limbs, or by 
exacting obedience to his authority, but in a way of which 
his subjects should be scarcely conscious. He desired that 
his guidance should control their steps, but that his agency, 
when most effectual, should be least suspected. 

If he were solicitous to govern the thoughts of Constantia, 
or to regulate her condition, the mode which he pursued had 
liitherto been admirably conducive to tliat end. To have 
found her friendless and indigent, accorded, with the most 
fortunate exactness, with his views. Tliat she should have 
descended to this depth, from a prosperous height, and 
tlierefore be a stranger to the torpor which attends heredi- 
tary poverty, and be qualified rightly to estimate, and use 
the competence to which, by his means, she was now re- 
stored, was all that his providence would have prescribed. 

Her thoughts were equally obsequious to liis direction. 
The novelty and grandeur of his schemes could not fail to 
transport a mind, ardent and capacious as tliat of Constantia. 
Here his fortune had been no less propitious. He did 
not fail to discover, and was not slow to seize the advan- 
tages flowing thence. By explaining his plans, opportunity 
was furnished to lead and to confine her meditations to 
the desirable tract. By adding fictitious embellishments, 
he adapted it witli more exactness to his purpose. By 


ORMON'D. 157 

piece-meal and imperfect disclosures, her curiosity was kept 
alive. 

I have described Ormond as having contracted a passion 
for Constantia. This passion certainly existed in his heart, 
but it must not be conceived to be immutable, or to operate 
independently of all those impulses and habits, which time 
had interwoven in liis character. The person and affections 
of this woman, were the objects sought by him, and which 
it was the dearest purpose of his existence to gain. This 
was his supreme good, though the motives to which it was 
indebted for its pre-eminence in his imagination, were nume- 
rous and complex. 

I have enumerated his opinions on the subject of wedlock. 
The question will obviously occur, whether Constantia was 
sought by him, with upright or flagitious views. His senti- 
ments and resolutions, on this head, had for a time fluctu- 
ated, but were now steadfast. Marriage was, in his eyes, 
hateful and absurd as ever. Constantia was to be obtained 
by any means. If other terms were rejected, he was willing, 
for tlie sake of this good, to accept her as a wife ; but this 
was a choice to be made, only when every expedient was ex- 
hausted, for reconciling her to a compact of a different kind. 

For tliis end, he prescribed to himself a path suited to 
the character of this lady. He made no secret of his senti- 
ments and views. He avow’ed his love, and described, 
without scruple, the scope of his wishes. He challenged 
her to confute his principles, and promised a candid audi- 
ence and profound consideration to her arguments. Her 
present opinions he knew to be adverse to his own, but he 
hoped to change them, by subtilty and perseverance. His 
further hopes and designs, he concealed from her. She 
was unaware, that if he were unable to effect a change in 
her creed, he was determined to adopt a system of impos- 
ture. To assume the guise of a convert to her doctrines, 
and appear as devout as herself in his notions of the sanctity 
of marriage. 

Perhaps it w^as not difficult, to have foreseen the conse- 
quence of these projects. Constantia’s peril was imminent. 
This arose not only from the talents and address of Ormond, 
but from the community of sentiment, wliich already existed 
14 


ORMOND. 


158 

between them. She was unguarded in a point, where, if 
not her whole, yet, doubtless, her principal security and 
sti’ongest bulwark wmild have existed. She was unac- 
quainted with religion. She was unhabituated to conform 
herself to any standard, but that connected with the present 
life. Matrimonial, as well as every other human duty, was 
disconnected in her mind, with any awful or divine sanction. 
She formed her estimate of good and evil, on nothing but 
terrestrial and visible consequences. 

This defect in her character, she owed to her father’s 
system of education. Mr. Dudley was an adherent to what 
he conceived to be true religion. No man was more pas- 
sionate in his eulogy of his own form of devotion and belief, 
or in his invectives against atheistical dogmas ; but he re- 
flected that religion assumed many forms, one only of which 
is salutary or true, and that truth in this respect, is incom- 
patible with infantile and premature instruction. 

To tliis subject, it was requisite to apply the force of a 
mature and unfettered understanding. For this end he la- 
bored to lead away the juvenile reflections of Constantia, 
from religious topics, to detain them in the paths of history 
and eloquence. To accustom her to the accuracy of geo- 
metrical deduction, and to the view of tliose evils, that have 
flowed in all ages, from mistaken piety. 

In consequence of this scheme, her habits rather than her 
opinions, were undevout. Religion was regarded by her, 
not witli disbelief, but with absolute indifference. Her good 
sense forbade her to decide before inquiry, but her modes 
of study and reflection were foreign to, and unfitted her for, 
tins species of discussion. Her mind was seldom called to 
meditate on this subject, and when it occurred, her percep- 
tions were vague and obscure. No objects, in the sphere 
which she occupied, were calculated to suggest to her tlie 
importance of investigation and certainty. 

It becomes me to confess, however reluctantly, thus much 
concerning my friend. However abundantly endow^ed in 
otlier respects, she was a stranger to the felicity and excel- 
lence flowing from religion. In her struggles with misfor- 
tune, she was supported and cheered by the sense of no ap- 
probation, but her owm. A defect of tliis nature will per- 
haps be regarded as of less moment, when her extreme 


ORMOND. 


159 


youth is remembered. All opinions in her mind were mu- 
table, inasmuch as the progress of her understanding was 
incessant. 

It was otherwise with Ormond. His disbelief was at 
once unchangeable and strenuous. The universe was to 
him a series of events, connected by an undesigning and in- 
scrutable necessity, and an assemblage of forms, to which no 
beginning or end can be conceived. Instead of transient 
views and vague ideas, his meditations, on religious points, 
had been intense. Enthusiasm was added to disbelief, and 
he not only dissented but abhorred. 

He deemed it prudent, however, to disguise sentiments, 
■which, if unfolded in their full force, would wear to her the 
appearance of insanity. But he saw and was eager to im- 
prove the advantage, which his anti-nuptial creed derived 
from the unsettled state of her opinions. He was not una- 
ware, likewise, of the auspicious and indispensable co-opera- 
tion of love. If this advocate were wanting in her bosom, 
all his efforts would be in vain. If this pleader were engaged 
in his behalf, he entertained no doubts of his ultimate suc- 
cess. He conceived that her present situation, all whose 
comforts were the fruits of his beneficence, and which afford- 
ed her no other subject of contemplation than himself, was 
as favorable as possible to the growth of this passion. 

Constantia was acquainted with his wishes. She could 
not fail to see, that she might speedily be called upon to de- 
termine a momentous question. Her own sensations and 
the character of Ormond, were, therefore, scrutinized with 
suspicious attention. Marriage could be justified in her eyes, 
only by community of affections and opinions. She might 
love without the sanction of her judgment, but while desti- 
tute of that sanction, she would never suffer it to sway her 
conduct. 

Ormond was imperfectly known. What knowledge she 
had gained, flowed chiefly from his own lips, and was tliere- 
fore unattended with certainty. What portion of deceit or 
disguise was mixed with his conversation, could be known, 
only by witnessing his actions with her own eyes, and com- 
paring his testimony with that of others. He had embraced 
a multitude of opinions, which appeared to her erroneous. 
TDl these were rectified, and their conclusions were made 


160 


ORMOND. 


to correspond, wedlock was improper. Some of these ob- 
scurities might be dispelled, and some of these discords be 
resolved into harmony by time. Meanwhile, it was proper 
to guard the avenues to her heart, and screen herself from 
self-delusion. 

There was no motive to conceal her reflections, on this 
topic, from her father. Mr. Dudley discovered, without her 
assistance, the views of Ormond. His daughter’s happiness 
was blended with his own. He lived, but in the conscious- 
ness of her tranquillity. Her image was seldom absent from 
his eyes, and never from his thoughts. The emotions which 
it excited, sprung but in part from the relationship of father. 
It was gratitude and veneration, w'hich she claimed from him, 
and which filled him with rapture. 

He ruminated deeply on the character of Ormond. The 
political and anti-theological tenets of this man were regard- 
ed, not merely with disapprobation, but antipathy. He was 
not ungrateful for the benefits which had been conferred up- 
on him. Ormond’s peculiarities of sentiment, excited no im- 
patience, as long as he was regarded merely as a visitant. 
It was only as one claiming, to possess his daughter, that his 
presence excited in Mr. Dudley, trepidation and loathing. 

Ormond was unacquainted with what was passing in the 
mind of Mr. Dudley. The latter conceived his own bene- 
factor and his daughter’s friend, to be entitled to the most 
scrupulous and affable urbanity. His objections to a nearer 
alliance w^ere urged with frequent and pathetic vehemence, 
only in his private interviews with Constantia. Ormond and 
he seldom met ; Mr. Dudley, as soon as his sight was per- 
fectly retrieved, betook himself with eagerness to painting, 
an amusement, which his late privations had only contributed 
to endear to him. 

Things remained nearly on their present footing for some 
znontlis. At the end of this period, some engagement oblig- 
ed Ormond to leave the city. He promised to return with 
as much speed as circumstances would admit. Meanw^hile 
liis letters supplied her with topics of reflection. These 
were frequently received, and were models of that energy 
of style, which results from simplicity of structure, from pic- 
turesque epithets, and from tlie compression of much meaning 
into few words. His arguments seldom imparted conviction. 


ORMOND. 


161 

but delight never failed to flow from their lucid order and 
cogent brevity. His narratives were unequalled for rapidity 
and comprehensiveness. Every sentence was a treasury to 
moralists and painters. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Domestic and studious occupations did not wholly en- 
gross the attention of Constantia. Social pleasures were 
precious to her heart, and she was not backward to form 
fellowships and friendships, with those around her. Hitlier- 
to she had met with no one entitled to an uncommon portion 
of regard, or worthy to supply the place of the friend of her 
infancy. Her visits were rare, and as yet, chiefly confined 
to the family of Mr. Melbourne. Here she was treated 
with flattering distinctions, and enjoyed opportunities of ex 
tending as far as she pleased, her connexions witli the gay 
and opulent. To this she felt herself by no means inclined, 
and her life was still eminently distinguished by love of pri- 
vacy, and habits of seclusion. 

0]ie morning, feeling an indisposition to abstraction, she 
detennined to drop in, for an hour, on Mrs. JMelbourne. 
Finding Mrs. Melbourne’s parlor unoccupied, she proceeded 
unceremoniously, to an apartment on the second floor, 
where that lady was accustomed to sit. She entered, but 
this room was likewise empty. Here she cast her eyes on 
a collection of prints, copied from the Farnese collection, and 
employed herself, for some minutes, in comparing the forms 
of Titiano and the Caracchi. 

Suddenly, notes of peculiar sweetness were wafted to her 
ear fi’om without. She listened with surprise, for the tones 
of her father’s lute were distinctly recognized. She hied, 
to the vvindow, wliich chanced to look into a back court. 
The music was perceived to come fi’om the window of the 
next house. She recollected her interview with the pur- 
chaser of her instrument, at the musical shop, and the power- 
ful impression wliich the stranger’s countenance had made 
upon her. 

14 -» 


162 


OUMDND. 


The first use she had made of her recent change of for- 
tune, was to endeavor the recovery of this instrument. 'Hie 
musical dealer, when reminded of the purchase, and inter- 
rogated as to the practicability of regaining the lute, ftM* 
which she was willing to give treble the price, answered 
that he had no knowledge of the foreign lady, beyond what 
was gained at the interview which took place in Constantia’s 
presence. Of her name, residence, and condition, he knew 
nothing, and had endeavored in vain to acquire knowledge. 

Now this incident seemed to have furnished her with the 
information she so earnestly sought. This performer was 
probably the stranger herself. Her residence so near the 
Melbournes, and in a house which was the property of the 
magistrate, might be means of information as to her condi- 
tion, and perhaps of introduction to a personal acquaintance. 

While engaged in these reflections, Mrs. Melbourne en- 
tered the appartment. Constantia related this incident to 
her friend, and stated the motives of her present curiosity. 
Her friend willingly imparted what knowledge she possessed 
relative to this subject. This was the sum. 

This house had been hired, previously to the appearance 
of yellow fever, by an English family, who left their native 
soil, with a view to a permanent abode in the new world. 
They had scarcely taken possession of the dwelling, when 
they were terrified by the progress of the epidemic. They 
had fled from the danger, but this circumstance, in addition 
to some others, induced them to change their scheme. An 
evil so unwonted as pestilence, impressed them with a belief 
of perpetual danger, as long as they remained on this side 
of the ocean. They prepared for an immediate return to 
England. 

For this end their house was relinquished, and their splen- 
did furniture destined to be sold by auction. Before this 
event could take place, application was made to Mr. Mel- 
bourne, by a lady, whom his wife’s description shewed to 
be the same with her of whom Constantia was in search. 
She not only rented the house, but negotiated by means of 
her landlord, the purchase of the furniture. 

Her servants were blacks, and all but one, who officiated 
as steward, unacquainted with the English language. Some 
accident had proved her name to be Beauvais. She had 


ORMOND. 


103 

no visitants, very rarely walked abroad, and then only in 
the evening widi a female servant in attendance. Her hours 
appeared to be divided between the lute and the pen. As 
to her previous history or her present sources of subsistence, 
Mrs. Melbourne’s curiosity had not been idle, but no consist- 
ent information was obtainable. Some incident had given 
birth to the conjecture, that she was wife, or daughter, or 
sister of Beauvais, the partizan of Brissot, whom the faction 
of Marat had lately consigned to the scaffold, but this con- 
jecture was unsupported by suitable evidence. 

This tale by no means diminished Constantia’s desire of 
personal intercourse. She saw no means of effecting her 
purpose. Mrs. Melbourne was unqualified to introduce her, 
having been discouraged in all the advances she had made 
towards a more friendly intercourse. Constantia reflected 
that her motives to seclusion, would probably induce this 
lady to treat others as her friend had been treated. 

It was possible, however, to gain access to her, if not as 
a friend, yet as the original proprietor of the lute. She de- 
termined to employ the agency of Roseveldt, the musical 
shopman, for the purpose of re-buying this instrument. To 
enforce her application, she commissioned this person, whose 
obliging temper entitled him to confidence, to state her in^ 
ducements for originally offering it for sale, and her motives 
for dearing the repossession on any terms which the lady 
thought proper to dictate. 

Roseveldt fixed an hour in which it was convenient for 
him to execute her commission. This hour having passed, 
Constantia, who was anxious respecting his success, hasten- 
ed to his house. Roseveldt delivered the instrument, which 
the lady, having listened to his pleas and offers, directed to 
be gratuitously restored to Constantia. At first, she had 
expressed her resolution to part with it on no account, and 
at no price. Its music was her only recreation, and this 
instrument surpassed any she had ever before seen, in the 
costliness and delicacy of its workmanship. But Roseveldt’s 
representations produced an instant change of resolution, 
and she not only eagerly consented to restore it, but refused 
to receive any tiling in payment. 

Constantia was deeply affected by this unexpected gen- 
erosity. It was not her custom to be outstripped in diis 


ORMOND. 


164 

career. She now condemned herself for her eagerness 
to regain this instrument. During her father’s blindness, it 
was a powerful, because the only solace of his melancholy. 
Now he had no longer the same anxieties to encounter, and 
books and the pencil were means of gratification always at 
hand. The lute, therefore, she imagined, could be easily 
dispensed with by Mi’. Dudley, whereas its power of con- 
soling might be as useful to the unknown lady, as it had form- 
erly been to her father. She readily perceived in what 
manner it became her to act. Roseveldt was commissioned 
to re-deliver the lute, and to intreat the lady’s acceptance of 
it. The tender was received without hesitation, and Rose- 
veldt dismissed without any inquiry relative to Constantia. 

These transactions were reflected on by Constantia with 
considerable earnestness. The conduct of the stranger, her 
affluent and lonely state, her conjectural relationship to the 
actors in the great theatre of Europe, were mingled together 
in the fancy of Constantia, and embellished witli the concep- 
tions of her beauty, derived from their casual meeting at 
Roseveldt’s. She forgot not their similitude in age and sex, 
and delighted to prolong the dream of future confidence 
and friendship to take place between them. Her heart sigh- 
ed for a companion, fitted to partake in all her sympatliies. 

This strain, by being connected with the image of a 
being like herself, who had grown up with her from cliild- 
hood, who had been entwined with her earliest affections, 
but from whom she had been severed from tlie period at 
which her father’s misfortunes commenced, and of whose 
present condition she was wholly ignorant, was productive of 
the deepest melancholy. It filled her with excruciating, and 
for a time irremediable sadness. It formed a kind of parox- 
ysm, which like some febrile affections, approach and retire 
without warning, and against the most vehement struggles. 

In this mood, her fancy was thronged with recollections of 
scenes, in which her friend had sustained a part. Their 
last interview was commonly revived in her remembrance 
so forcibly, as almost to produce a lunatic conception of its 
reality. A ditty which they sung together on that occasion, 
flowed to her lips. If ever human tones were qualified to 
convey the whole soul, tliey were those of Constantia when 
she sung 5 — 


ORMOND. 


165 


The breeze awakes, the bark prepares, 

To watt me to a distant shore ; 

But far beyond this world of cares, 

We meet again to part no more. 

These fits were accustomed to approach and to vanish by 
degrees. Tliey were transitory but not infrequent, and 
W’ere pregnant with such agonizing tenderness, sucli heart- 
breaking sighs, and a flow of such bitter yet uelicious tears, 
that it were not easily decided whether the pleasure or the 
])ain surmounted. When symptoms of their coming were 
felt, she hastened into solitude, that the progress of her feel- 
ings might endure no restraint. 

On the evening of the day, on which the lute had been 
sent to the foreign lady, Constantia was alone in her cham- 
ber, immersed in desponding thoughts. From these she 
was recalled by Fabian, her black servant, who announced 
a guest. She was loth to break off the thread of her pre- 
sent meditations, and inquired with a tone of some impa- 
tience, who was the guest 9 The servant was unable to tell ; 
it was a young lady whom he had never before seen ; she 
had opened for herself, and entered the parlor without pre- 
vious notice. 

Constantia paused at this relation. Her thoughts had re- 
cently been fixed upon Sophia Westwyn. Since theii* part- 
ing four yeai’s before, she had heard no tidings of this wo- 
man. Her fears imagined no more probable cause of her 
friend’s silence than her death. This, however, was uncer- 
tain. The question now occurred, and brought with it 
sensations that left her no power to move; was this the 
guest 9 

Her doubts were quickly dispelled, for the stranger, taking 
a light from the table, and not brooking the servant’s delay, 
followed Fabian to the chamber of his mistress.. She en- 
tered \vitli careless freedom, and presented, to the astonished 
eyes of Constantia, the figure she had met at Roseveldt’s, 
and the purchaser of her lute. 

The stranger advanced towards her witli quick steps, and 
mingling tones of benignity and sprightliness, said ; — 

I have come to perform a duty. I have received from 
you to-day a lute, that I valued almost as my best friend. 
To find another in America, would not, perhaps, be possible ; 


ORMOND. 


166 

but, certainly, none equally superb and exquisite as this, can 
be found. To shew how highly I esteem the gift, I have 
come in person to thank you for it. — There she stopped. 

Constantia could not suddenly recover from tlie extreme 
surprise into which the unexpectedness of this meeting, had 
thix)wn her. She could scarcely sufficiently suppress this 
confusion, to enable her to reply to ffiese rapid effiisions of 
her visitant, who resumed, with augmented freedom ; — 

I came, as I said, to thank you, but, to say the truth, 
that was not all. I came likewise to see you. Having done 
my errand, I suppose I must go. I would fain stay longer 
and talk to you a little ; will you give me lieve 

Constantia, scarcely retrieving her composure, stammered 
out a polite assent. They seated themselves, and the visit- 
ant, pressing the hand which she had taken, proceeded in 
a strain so smooth, so flowing, sliding from grave to gay, 
blending vivacity with tenderness, interpreting Constantia’s 
silence with so keen sagacity, and accounting for the singu- 
larities of her own deportment, in a way so respectful to her 
companion, and so wortliy of a steadfast and pure mind in 
herself, that every embarrassment and scruple, were quickly 
banished from their inter\aew. 

In an hour the guest took her leave. No promise of re- 
peating her visit, and no request that Constantia would re- 
pay it, was made. Their parting seemed to be the last ; 
whatever purpose having been contemplated, appeared to be 
accomplished by this transient meeting. It was of a nature 
deeply to interest the mind of Constantia. This was the 
lady who talked with Rose veldt, and bargained with Mel- 
bourne, and they had been induced by appearances, to sup- 
pose her ignorant of any language but French ; but her 
discourse, on the present occasion, was in English, and was 
distinguished by unrivalled fluency. Her phrases and habits 
of pronouncing, were untinctured with any foreign mixture, 
and bespoke the perfect knowledge of a native of America. 

On the next evening, while Constantia was reviewing this 
transaction, calling up and weighing the sentiments which 
the stranger had uttered, and indulging some regret at the 
unlikelihood of their again meeting, Martmette, (for I will 
henceforth call her by her true name.) entered the apart- 
men* as abruptly as before. She accounted for the visit, 


ORMOND. 


167 


merely by the pleasure it afforded her, and proceeded in a 
strain even more versatile and brilliant, than before. This 
interview ended like the first, without any tokens, on the 
part of the guest, of resolution or desire to renew it, but a 
third interview took place on the ensuing day. 

Henceforth IMartinette became a frequent but hasty visit- 
ant, and Constantia became daily more enamored of her new 
acquaintance. She did not overlook peculiarities in the con- 
versation and deportment of this woman. These exhibited 
no tendencies to confidence, or traces of sympathy. They 
merely denoted large experience, vigorous faculties and mas- 
culine attainments. Herself was never introduced, except 
as an observer, but her observations, on government and 
manners, were profound and critical. 

Her education seemed not widely different, from that 
which Constantia had received. It was classical and math- 
ematical, but to this was added a knowledge of political and 
military transactions in Europe, during the present age, 
which implied the possession of better means of information, 
than books. She depicted scenes and characters, with the 
accuracy of one who had partaken and witnessed them her- 
self. 

Constantia’s attention had been chiefly occupied by per- 
sonal concerns. Her youth had passed in contention witli 
misfortune, or in the quietudes of study. She could not be 
unapprised of contemporary revolutions and wars, but her 
ideas respecting them were indefinite and vague. Her 
views and her inferences on this head, were general and 
speculative. Her acquaintance with history was exact and 
circumstantial, in proportion as she retired backward from 
her own age. She knew more of the siege of Mutina than 
of that of Lisle ; more of the machinations of Cataline and 
the tumults of Clodius, than of tlie prostration of the Bastile, 
and the proscriptions of Marat. 

She listened, therefore, with unspealvable eagerness to 
tliis reciter, who detailed to her, as the occasion suggested, 
the progress of action and opinion, on the theatre of France 
and Poland. Conceived and rehearsed as diis was, with 
the energy and copiousness of one who sustained a part in 
the scene, tiie mind of Constantia was always kept at the 
pitcjh of curiosity and wonder. 


ORMOND. 


168 

But while this historian described the features, personal 
deportment, and domestic character of Antoinette, Mirabeau 
and Robespierre, an impenetrable veil was drawn over her 
own condition. There was a warmth and freedom in her 
details, which bespoke her own co-a^ency in these events, 
but was unattended by transports of indignation or sorrow, or 
by pauses of abstraction, such as were likely to occur in one 
whose hopes and fears had been intimately blended with 
public events. 

Constantia could not but derive humiliation from compar- 
ing her own slender acquirements with those of her compan- 
ion. She was sensible that all the differences between 
them, arose from diversities of situation. She was eager to 
discover in wdiat particulars this diversity consisted. She 
was for a time withheld by scruples, not easily explained, 
from disclosing her wishes. An accident however occurred, 
to remove these impediments. One evening, this uncere- 
monious visitant discovered Constantia busily surveying a 
chart of the Mediterranean sea. This circumstance led the 
discourse to the present state of Syria and Cyprus. Marti- 
nette was copious in her details. Constantia listened for a 
time, and when a pause ensued, questioned her companion 
as to the means she possessed of acquiring so much know- 
ledge. This question was proposed with diffidence, and 
prefaced by apologies. 

Instead of being offended by your question, replied the 
guest, I only wonder that it never before occurred to you. 
Travellers tell us much. Volney and Mariti would have 
told you nearly all that I have told. With these I have con- 
versed personally, as well as read tlieir books, but my know- 
ledge is, in truth, a species of patrimony. I irJierit it. 

Will you be good enough, said Constantia, to explain 
yourself*? 

My mother was a Greek of Cyprus. My father was a 
Sclavonian of Ragusa, and I was born in a garden at 
Aleppo. 

That was a singular concurrence. 

How singular *? That a nautical vagrant like my fatlier, 
should sometimes anchor in the bay of Naples. Tiiat a 
Cyprian merchant should carry his property and daughter 
beyond the reach of a Turkish Sangiack, and seek an asy- 


ORMOND. 


169 


lum so commodious as Napoli ; that my father should have 
dealings with this merchant, see, love, and marry his daugh- 
ter, and afterwards procure, from the French government, a 
consular commission to Aleppo ; that the union should, in 
due time, be productive of a son and daughter, are events 
far from being singular. They happen daily. 

And may I venture to ask if this be your history 

The history of my parents. I hope you do not consider 
the place of my birth as the sole or the most important cir- 
cumstance of my life. 

Nothing would please me more than to be enabled to 
compare it with other incidents. I am apt to think that 
your life is' a tissue of surprising events. That the daugh- 
ter of a Ragusan and Greek, should have seen and known 
so much ; tliat she should talk English with equal fluency 
and more correcmess than a native ; that I should now be 
conversing with her in a corner so remote from Cyprus and 
Sicily, are events more wonderful than any which I have 
known. 

Wonderful ! Pish ! Thy ignorance, thy miscalculation 
of probabilities is far more so. My father talked to me 
in Sclavonic. My mother and her maids talked to me 
in Greek. My neighbors talked to me in a medley of 
Arabic, Syriac and Turkish. My father’s secretary was 
a scholar. He was as well versed in Lysias and Xen- 
ophon, as any of their contemporaries. He labored for 
tenyearsto enable me to read a language, essentially the 
same with that I used daily to my nurse and mother. Is it 
wonderful tlien that 1 should be skilful in Sclavonic, Greek, 
and the jai’gon of Aleppo 9 To have refrained from learning 
was impossible. Suppose a girl, prompt, diligent, inquisi- 
tive, to spend ten years of her life partly in Spain ; partly in 
Tuscany ; partly in France, and partly in England. With 
her versatile curiosity and flexible organs, would it be possi- 
ble for her to remain ignorant of each of these languages 
Latin is the mother of them all, and presents itself, of 
course, to her studious attention. 

I cannot easily conceive motives which should lead you, 
before the age of twenty, through so many scenes. 

Can you not 9 You grew and flourished, like a frail Mi- 
mosa, in the spot where destiny had planted you. Thank 
15 


170 


ORMOND. 


my stars, I am somewhat better than a vegetable. Neces- 
sity, it is true, and not choice, set me in motion, but I am 
not sorry for the consequences. 

Is it too much, said Constantia, with some hesitation, to 
request a detail of your youthful adventures 9 

Too much to give, perhaps, at a short notice. To such 
as you, my tale might abound with novelty, while to others, 
more acquainted with vicissitudes, it would be tedious and 
flat. I must be gone in a few minutes. For that and for 
better reasons, I must not be minute. A summary, at pres- 
ent, will enable you to judge how far a more copious narra- 
tive is suited to instruct or to please you. 


CHAPTER XX. 

My father, in proportion as he grew old and rich, became 
weary of Aleppo. His natal sod, had it been the haunt of 
Calmucks or Bedwins, his fancy would have transformed in- 
to Paradise. No wonder that the equitable aristocracy, and 
the peaceful husbandmen of Ragusa, should be endeared to 
his heart by comparison with Egyptian plagues and Turkish 
tyranny. Besides, he lived for his children as well as him- 
self. Their education and future lot required him to seek a 
permanent home. 

He embarked with his wife and offspring, at Scanderoon. 
No immediate conveyance to Ragusa offering, the appear- 
ance of the plague in Syi’ia, induced him to hasten his de- 
parture. He entered a French vessel for Marseilles. After 
being three days at sea, one of the crew was seized by the 
fatal disease, which had depopulated all the towns upon the 
coast. The voyage was made with more than usual despatch, 
but before we reached our port, my mother and half tlie 
crew perished. My father died in the Lazzaretto, more 
through grief than disease. 

My brotlier and I were children and helpless. My fadier’s 
fortune was on board this vessel, and was left by liis deatli 
to tlie mercy of the captain. This man was honest, and 
consigned us and our property to tlte merchant witli whom 


ORMOND. 


171 


he* dealt. Happily for us, our protector was childless and 
of scrupulous integrity. We henceforth became his adopt- 
ed children. My brother’s education and my own, were 
conducted on the justest principles. 

At the end of four years, our protector found it expedient 
to make a voyage to Cayenne. His brother was an exten- 
sive proprietor in that colony, but his sudden death made 
way for the succession of our friend. To establish his 
claims, his presence was necessary on the spot. He was lit- 
tle qualified for arduous enterprises, and his age demanded 
repose, but his own acquisitions, having been small, and be- 
ing desirous of leaving us in possession of competence, he 
cheerfully embarked. 

Meanwhile, my brother was placed at a celebrated semi- 
nary in the Pais de Vaud, and I was sent to a sister who 
resided at Verona. I was at this time fourteen years old, 
one year younger than my brother, whom, since that period, 
I have neither heard of nor seen. 

1 was now a woman, and qualified to judge and act for 
myself. The character of my new friend was austere and de- 
vout, and there were so many incongenial points between us, 
that but little tranquillity was enjoyed under her control. 
The priest who discharged the office of her confessor, tliought 
proper to entertain views with regard to me, grossly incon- 
sistent with the sanctity of his profession. He was a man 
of profound dissimulation and masterly address. His efforts, 
however, were repelled with disdain. My security against 
his attempts lay in the uncouthness and deformity which na- 
ture had bestowed upon his person and visage, rather than 
in the firmness of my own principles. 

The courtship of Father Bartoli, the austerities of Madame 
Roselli, the disgustful or insipid occupations to which I was 
condemned, made me impatiently wish for a change, but my 
father, so I will call him, had decreed that I should remain 
under his sister’s guardianship till his return from Guiana. 
When this would happen was uncertain. Events unforeseen 
might protract it for years, but it could not arrive in less than 
a twelvemonth. 

I was incessantly preyed upon by discontent. My soli- 
tude was loathsome. I panted after liberty and friendship, 
and the want of these were not recompensed by luxury and 


172 


ORMOND. 


quiet, and by the instructions in useful science, which I re- 
ceived from Bartoli, who, though detested as a hypocrite 
and lover, was venerable as a scholar. He would fain have 
been an Abelard, but it was not his fate to meet with an He- 
loise. 

Two years passed away in this durance. My miseries 
were exquisite. I am almost at a loss to account for the 
unhappiness of that time, for looking back upon it, I perceive 
that an equal period could not have been spent with more 
benefit. For the sake of being near me, Bartoli impor- 
tunately offered his instructions. He had nothing to com- 
municate but metaphysics and geometry. These were little 
to my taste, but I could not keep him at distance. I had 
no other alternative than to endure him as a lover or a teach- 
er. His passion for science was at least equal to that which 
he entertained for me, and both these passions combined to 
make him a sedulous instructor. He was a disciple of the 
newest doctrines respecting matter and mind. He denied 
the impenetrability of tlie first, and the immateriality of the 
second. These he endeavored to inculcate upon me, as 
well as to subvert my religious tenets, because he delighted, 
like all men, in transfusing his opinions, and because he re- 
garded my piety as the only obstacle to his designs. He 
succeeded in dissolving the spell of ignorance, but not in pro- 
ducing that kind of acquiescence he wished. He had, in 
this respect, to struggle not only with my principles, but my 
weakness. He might have overcome every obstacle, but 
my abhorrence of deformity and age. To cure me of this 
aversion was beyond his power. My servitude grew daily 
more painful. I grew tired of chasing a comet to its aphe- 
lion, and of untying the knot of an infinite series. A 
change in my condition became indispensable to my very 
existence. Languor and sadness, and unwillingness to eat or 
to move, were at last my perpetual attendants. 

Madame Roselli was alarmed at my condition. The 
sources of my inquietude were incomprehensible to her. 
The truth was, that I scarcely understood them myself, and 
my endeavors to explain them to my friend, merely instill- 
ed into her an opinion, that I was either lunatic or deceitful. 
She complained and admonished, but my disinclination to my 
usual employments would not be conquered, and my health 


ORMOND. 


173 

rapidly declined. A physician, who was called, confessed 
that my case was beyond his power to understand, but re- 
commended, as a sort of desperate expedient, a change of 
scene. A succession and variety of objects might possibly 
contribute to my cure. 

At this time there arrived at Verona, Lady D’Arcy, an 
English woman of fortune and rank, and a strenuous Cath- 
olic. Her husband had lately died, and in order to divert 
her grief, as well as to gratify her curiosity in viewing the 
great seat of her religion, she had come to Italy. Inter- 
course took place between her and Madame Roselli. By 
this means she gained a knowledge of my person and condi- 
tion, and kindly offered to take me under her protection. 
She meant to traverse every part of Italy, and was walling 
that I should accompany her in all her wanderings. 

This offer was gratefully accepted, in spite of the artifices 
and remonstrances of Bartoli. My companion speedily con- 
tracted for me the affection of a mother. She was without 
kindred of her own religion, having acquired her faith, not 
by inheritance, but conversion. She desired to abjure her 
native country, and to bind herself by every social tie, to a 
people who adhered to the same faith. Me, she promised 
to adopt as her daughter, provided her first impressions in 
my favor, were not belied by my future deportment. 

My principles w^ere opposite to her’s, but habit, an aver- 
sion to displease my friend, my passion for knowledge, which 
my new condition enabled me to gratify, all combined to 
make me a deceiver, but my imposture was merely of a 
negative kind ; I deceived her rather by forbearance to con- 
tradict, and by acting as she acted, than by open assent and 
zealous concurrence. My new state was, on this Account, 
not devoid of inconvenience. The general deportment and 
sentiments of Lady D’ Arcy, testified a vigorous and pure 
mind. New avenues to knowledge, by converse with man- 
kind and with books, and by the survey of new scenes, 
were open for my use. Gratitude and veneration attached 
me to my friend, and made the task of pleasing her, by a 
seeming conformity of sentiments, less ii’ksome. 

During this interval, no tidings were received by his sister, 
nt Verona, respecting the fate of Sebastian Roselli, The 
15 * 


174 


ORMOND. 


supposition of his death, was too plausible, not to be adopt- 
ed. What influence this disaster possessed over my bro- 
ther’s destiny, I know not. The generosity of Lady D’ Arcy, 
hindered me from experiencing any disadvantage from this 
circumstance. Fortune seemed to have decreed, that I 
should not be reduced to the condition of an oiphan. 

At an age and in a situation like mine, I could not remain 
long unacquainted with love. JVly abode at Rome, intro- 
duced me to the Imowledge of a youth from England, who 
had every property which I regarded as w’orthy of esteem. 
He was a kinsman of Lady D’Arcy, and as such admitted 
at her house on the most familiar footing. His patrimony 
w’as extremely slender, but was in his own possession. He 
had no intention of increasing it by any professional pursuit, 
but was contented with the frugal provision it afforded. He 
proposed no other end of his existence, than the acquisition 
of virtue and knowledge. 

The property of Lady D’ Aj’cy was subject to her own 
disposal, but, on the failure of a testamant, this youth was, 
in legal succession, the next heir. He was well acquainted 
with her temper and views, but in the midst of urbanity 
and gentleness, studied none of those concealments of opin- 
ion, wliich would have secured him her favor. That he 
was not of her own faith, was an insuperable, but the only 
obstacle, to the admission of his claims. 

If conformity of age and opinions, and the mutual fasci- 
nation of love, be a suitable basis for marriage, Wentworth 
and I were destined for each other. Mutual disclosure add- 
ed sanctity to our affection, but the happiness of Lady 
D’ Arcy, being made to depend upon the dissolution of our 
compact, the heroism of Wentworth made liim hasten to 
dissolve it. As soon as she discovered our attachment, she 
displayed symptoms of the deepest anguish. In addition 
(0 religious motives, her fondness for me forbade her to exist 
but in my society, and in tlie belief of the purity of my 
faith. The contention, on my part, was vehement, between 
the regards due to her felicity and to my own. Had Went- 
worth left me the power to decide, my decision would doubt- 
less have evinced the frailty of my fortitude, and the strength 
of my passion, but having informed me fully of the reasons 
of his conduct, he precipitately retired from Rome. He 


ORMOND. 175 

left me no means of tracing his footsteps and of assailing 
his weakness, by expostulation and entreaty. 

Lady D’Arcy was no less eager to abandon a spot, where 
her happiness had been so imminently endangered. Our next 
residence was Palermo. I will not dwell upon the sensa- 
tions, produced by this disappointment, in me. I review 
them with astonishment and self-compassion. If I thought 
it possible for me to sink again into imbecility so ignominious, 
I should be disposed to kill myself. 

There was no end to vows of fondness and tokens of 
gratitude in Lady D’Arcy. Her future life should be de- 
voted to compensate me for this sacrifice. Nothing could 
console her in that single state in which she intended to live, 
but the consolations of my fellowship. Her conduct coin- 
cided for some time with these professions, and my anguish 
was allayed by the contemplation of the happiness conferred 
upon one whom I revered. 

My friend could not be chai’ged with dissimulation and 
aitifice. Her character had been mistaken by herself as 
well as by me. Devout affections seemed to have filled 
her heart, to the exclusion of any object besides myself. 
She cherished with romantic tenderness, the memory of her 
husband, and imagined that a single state was indispensably 
enjoined upon her, by religious duty. This persuasion, how- 
ever, was subverted by the arts of a Spanish Cavalier, young, 
opulent, and romantic as herself in devotion. An event 
like this might, indeed, have been easily predicted, by those 
who reflected that the lady was still in the bloom of life, 
ardent in her temper and bewitching in her manners. 

The fondness she had lavished upon me, was now, in 
some degree, transferred to a new object, but I still received 
the treatment due to a beloved daughter. She was solicitous 
as ever to promote my gratification, and a diminution of 
kindness would not have been suspected, by those who had 
not witnessed the excesses of her former passion. Her 
marriage with the SjDaniard removed the obstacle to union 
widi Wentworth. This man, however, had set himself be- 
yond the reach of my inquiries. Had there been the shad- 
ow of a clue afforded, me I should certainly have sought 
Iiim to the ends of the world. 


ORMOND. 


176 

I continued to reside with my friend, and accompanied 
her and her husband to Spain. Antonio de Leyva was a 
man of probity. His mind was enlightened by knowledge 
and his actions dictated by humanity. Though but little 
older than myself, and young enough to be the son of his 
spouse, his deportment to me was a model of rectitude and 
delicacy. I spent a year in Spain, partly in the mountains 
of Castile and partly at Segovia. New manners and a new 
language occupied my attention for a time, but these, losing 
their novelty, lost their power to please. I betook myself to 
books, to beguile the tediousness and diversil}^ the tenor of 
my life. 

This would not have long availed, but I was relieved from 
new repinings, by the appointment of Antonio de Leyva to 
a diplomatic office at Vienna. Tliither we accordingly re- 
paired. A coincidence of circumstances had led me wide 
from the path of ambition and study, usually allotted to my 
sex and age. From the computation of eclipses, I now 
betook myself to the study of man. My proficiency, when 
I allowed it to be seen, attracted great attention. Instead 
of adulation and gallantry, I was engaged in watching the 
conduct of states, and revolving the theories of politicians. 

Superficial observers were eitlier incredulous with regard 
to my character, or connected a stupid wonder with their 
belief. My attainments and habits, they did not see to be 
perfectly consonant with the principles of human nature. 
They unavoidably flowed from the illicit attachment of Bar- 
toli, and the erring magnanimity of Wentworth. Aversion 
to the priest was the grand inciter of my former studies ; the 
love of Wentworth, whom 1 hoped once more to meet, made 
me labor to exclude the importunities of otliers, and to 
qualify myself for securing his affections. 

Since our parting in Italy, Wentworth had traversed Syria 
and Egypt, and arrived some months after me at Vienna. 
He was on the point of leaving the city, when accident in- 
formed me of his being there. An interview was effected, 
and our former sentiments respecting each other, having 
undergone no change, we were united. Madame de Ley- 
va reluctantly concurred with our wishes, and, at parting, 
forced upon me a considerable sum of money. 


ORMOND. 


177 

Wentworth’s was a character not frequently met with 
in the world. He was a political enthusiast, who es- 
teemed notliing more graceful or glorious than to die for the 
liberties of mankind. He had traversed Greece with an im- 
agination full of the exploits of ancient times, and derived, 
from contemplating Thermopylae and Marathon, an enthusi- 
asm that bordered upon phrenzy. 

It was now the third year of the revolutionary war in 
America, and previous to our meeting at Vienna, he had 
formed the resolution of repairing thither, and tendering his 
service to the Congress as a volunteer. Our marriage made 
no change in his plans. My soul was engrossed by two 
passions, a wild spirit of adventure, and a boundless devo- 
tion to him. I vowed to accompany him in every danger, 
to vie with him in military ardor ; to combat and to die 
by his side. 

I delighted to assume the male dress, to acquire skill at 
the sw’ord, and dexterity in every boisterous exercise. The 
timidity that commonly attends women, gradually vanished. 
I felt as it” imbued by a soul that was a stranger to the sex- 
ual distinction. We embarked at Brest, in a frigate des- 
tined for St. Domingo. A desperate conflict with an English 
ship in the bay of Biscay, was my first introduction to a 
scene of tumult and danger, of whose true nature, 1 had 
formed no previous conception. At first I was spiritless and 
full of dismay. Experience, however, gradually reconciled 
me to the life that I had chosen. 

A fortunate shot, by dismasting the enemy, allowed us to 
prosecute our voyage unmolested. At Cape Francois we 
found a ship which transported us, after various perils, to 
Richmond in Virginia. I will not carry you through tlie 
adventures of four years. You, sitting all your life in peace- 
ful comers, can scarcely imagine that variety of hardship 
and turmoil, which attends the female who lives in a camp. 

Few would sustain these hardships with better grace than 
I did. I could seldom he prevailed on to remain at a dis- 
tance and inactive, when my husband was in battle, and 
more than once rescued him from death, by the seasonable 
destruction of his adversary. 

At the repulse of the Americans at Germantown, Went- 
worth was wounded and taken prisoner. I obtained permis- 


178 


ORMOND. 


sion to attend bis sick bed and supply that care, without 
wbicb he would assuredly have died. Being imperfectly 
recovered, he was sent to England, and subjected to a rig- 
orous imprisonment. Milder treatment might have permit- 
ted his complete restoration to health, but, as it was, he died. 

His kindred were noble, and rich, and powerful, but it 
was difficult to make them acquainted with Wentworth’s 
situation. Their assistance when demanded, was readily 
afforded, but it came too late to prevent his death. Me 
they snatched from my voluntary prison, and employed 
every friendly art to efface from my mind the images of re- 
cent calamity. 

Wentworth’s singularities of conduct and opinion, had 
estranged him at an early age from his family. They felt 
little regret at his fate, but every motive concurred to secure 
th^ir aftection and succor to me. My character was known 
to many officers, returned from America, whose report, 
joined with the influence of my conversation, rendered me 
an object to be gazed at by thousands. Strange vicissitude ! 
Now immersed in the infection of a military hospital, the 
sport of a wayward fortune, struggling with cold and hunger, 
with negligence and contumely. A month after passing 
into scenes of gaiety and luxury, exhibited at operas and 
masquerades, made the theme of inquiry and encomium at 
every place of resort, and caressed by the most illustrious 
among the votaries of science, and the advocates of the 
American cause. 

Here I again met Madame de Leyva. This w'oman W'as 
perpetually assuming new forms. She was a sincere con- 
vert to the Catholic religion, but she was open to every new 
impression. She was the dupe of every powerful reasoner. 
and assumed with equal facility the most opposite shapes. 
She had again reverted to the Protestant religion, and go- 
verned by a headlong zeal in whatever cause she engaged, 
she had sacrificed her husband and child to a new con- 
viction. 

The instrument of this change, was a man who passed, at 
that time, for a Frenchman. He. was young, accomplished 
and addressful, but was not suspected of having been 
prompted by illicit views, or of having seduced the lady 
from allegiance to her husband as w^ell as to her God. De 


ORMOND. 


179 

Leyva, however, who was sincere in his religion as well as 
his love, was hasty to avenge this injury, and in a contest 
with the Frenchman, was killed. His wife adopted at once, 
her ancient religion and country, and was once more an 
English woman. 

At our meeting her affection for me seemed to be revived, 
and the most passionate entreaties were used to detain m& 
in England. My previous arrangements would not suffer it. 
I foresaw restraints and inconveniences from the violence 
and caprice of her passions, and intended henceforth to 
keep my liberty inviolate by any species of engagement, 
either of friendship or marriage. My habits were French, 
and I proposed henceforward to take up my abode at Paris. 
Since liis voyage to Guiana, I had heard no tidings of Se- 
bastian Roselli. This man’s image was cherished with filial 
emotions, and I conceived that the sight of him would amply 
reward a longer journey than from London to Marseilles. 

Beyond my hopes, I found him in his ancient abode. 
The voyage and a residence of three years at Cayenne, had 
been beneficial to his appearance and health. He greeted 
me with paternal tenderness, and admitted me to a full par- 
ticipation of his fortune, which the sale of his American pro- 
perty had greatly enhanced. He was a stranger to tlie fate 
of my brother. On his return home, he had gone to Swit- 
zerland with a view of ascertaining his destiny. The youtli, 
a few months after his arrival at Lausanne, had eloped with 
a companion, and had hitherto eluded all Roselli’s searches 
and inquiries. My father was easily prevailed upon to 
transfer his residence from Provence to Paris. 

Here Martinette paused, and marking the clock, it is time, 
resumed she, to be gone. Are you not weary of my tale 
On the day I entered France, I entered tlie twenty-third 
year of my age, so that my promise of detailing my youth- 
ful adventures, is fulfilled. I must away. Till we meet 
again, farewell. 


180 


ORMOND. 


CHAPTER XXL 

Such was the wild series of Martinett’s adventures. 
Each incident fastened on the memory of Constantia, and 
gave birtli to numberless reflections. Her prospect of man- 
kind seemed to be enlarged, on a sudden, to double its an- 
cient dimensions. Ormond’s narratives had carried her be- 
yond the Mississippi, and into the deserts of Siberia. He 
had recounted the perils of a Russian war, and painted the 
manners of Mongals and Naudowessies. Her new friend 
had led her back to the civilized world, and portrayed the 
other half of the species. Men, in their two forms, of sav- 
age and refined, had been scrutinized by these observers, 
and what was wanting in the delineations of the one, was 
liberally supplied by the other. 

Eleven years, in the life of Martinette, was unrelated. 
Her conversation suggested the opinion that this interval had 
been spent in France. It was obvious to suppose, that a 
woman, thus fearless and sagacious, had not been inactive at 
a period like the present, which called forth talents and 
courage, without distinction of sex, and had been particular- 
ly distinguished by female enterprise and heroism. Her 
name easily led to the suspicion of concurrence with the 
subverters of monarchy, and of participation in their fall. 
Her flight from the merciless tribunals of tlie faction that 
now reigned, would explain present appearances. 

Martinette brought to their next interview, an air of un- 
common exultation. On this being remarked, she commu- 
nicated the tidings of the fall of the sanguinary tyranny of 
Robespierre. Her eyes sparkled, and every featiu-e was 
pregnant witli delight, while she unfolded, with her accus- 
tomed energy, the particulars of tliis tremendous revolution. 
The blood, which it occasioned to flow, was mentioned with- 
out any symptoms of disgust or horror. 

Constantia ventured to ask, if this incident was likely to in- 
fluence her own condition. 

Yes. It will open the way for my return. 

Then you think of returning to a scene of so much dan- 
ger? 


ORMOND. 181 

Danger, my girl 9 It is my element. I am an adorer of 
liberty, and liberty without peril can never exist. 

But so much bloodshed, and injustice ! Does not your 
heart shrink from tlie view of a scene of massacre and tumult, 
such as Paris has lately exhibited and will probably continue 
to exhibit 9 

Thou talkest, Constantia, in a way scarcely woitliy of thy 
good sense. Have I not been tliree years in a camp 
What are bleeding wounds and mangled corpses, when ac- 
customed to the daily sight of them for years 9 Am I not a 
lover of liberty, and must I not exult in the fall of tyrants, 
and regret only that my hand had no share in their destruc- 
tion 

But a woman— how can the heart of woman be inured to 
the shedding of blood ? 

Have women, I beseech thee, no capacity to reason and 
infer ? Are they less open than men to the influence of 
habit ? My hand never faltered when liberty demanded the 
victim. If thou wert with me at Paris, I could shew thee a 
fusil of two barrels, which is precious beyond any other re- 
lick, merely because it enabled me to kill thirteen officers 
at Jenappe. Two of these were emigrant nobles, whom I 
knew and loved before the revolution, but the cause tliey had 
since espoused, cancelled their claims to mercy. 

What, said the startled Constantia, have you fought in the 
ranks 9 

Certainly. Hundreds of my sex have done the same. 
Some were impelled by the enthusiasm of love, and some 
by a mere passion for war ; some by the contagion of ex- 
ample ; and some, with whom I myself must be ranked, by 
a generous devotion to liberty. Brunswick and Saxe Co- 
burg, had to contend with whole regiments of women ; re- 
giments they would have formed, if they had been collected 
into separate bodies. 

I will tell thee a se^i^. * Thou wouldst never have seen 
Martinette de Beauvais, if Brunswick had deferred one day 
longer, his orders for retreating into Germany. 

How so ^ 

She would have died by her own hand. 

What could lead to sucli an outrage 
16 


ORMOND. 


182 

The love of liberty. 

I cannot comprehend how that love should prompt you to 
suicide. 

I will tell thee. The plan was formed and could not mis- 
carry. A woman was to play the part of a banished Royal- 
ist, was to repair to the Prussian camp, and to gain admis- 
sion to the general. This would have easily been granted 
to a female and an ex-noble. There she was to assassinate 
the enemy of her country, and to attest her magnanimity by 
slaughtering herself. 1 was weak enough to regret the igno- 
minious retreat of the Prussians, because it precluded the 
necessity of such a sacrifice. 

Tliis was related with accents and looks that sufficiently 
attested its truth. Constantia shuddered and drew back, to 
contemplate more deliberately the features of her guest. 
Hitherto she had read in them nothing that bespoke the des- 
perate courage of a martyr, and the deep designing of an 
assassin. The image which her mind had reflected, from 
the deportment of this woman, was changed. The likeness 
which she had feigned to herself, was no longer seen. She 
felt that antipathy was preparing to displace love. These 
sentiments, however, she concealed, and suffered tlie con- 
versation to proceed. 

Their discourse now turned upon the exploits of several 
women, who mingled in the tumults of the capital and in the 
armies on the frontiers. Instances were mentioned of fero- 
city in some, and magnanimity in others, which almost sur- 
passed belief. Constantia listened greedily, though not with 
approbation, and acquired, at every sentence, new desire to 
be acquainted with the personal history of Martinette. On 
mentioning this wish, her friend said, that she endeavored to 
amuse her exile, by composing her own memoirs, and that, 
on her next visit, she would bring with her the volume, 
which she would suffer Constantia to read. 

A separation of a week elapsed. felt some impatience 
for the renewal of their intercourse, and for the perusal of the 
volume that had been mentioned. One evening Sarah Bax- 
ter, whom Constantia had placed in her own occasional ser- 
vice, entered the room with marks of great joy and surprise, 
and informed her that she at lengtli had discovered Miss Mon- 
rose. From her abrupt and prolix account, it appeared, that 


ORMOND. 


183 

Sarah had overtaken Miss Monrose in the street, and guided 
by her own curiosity, as well as by the wish to gratify her 
mistress, slie had followed the stranger. To her utter as- 
tonishment the lady had paused at Mr. Dudley’s door, with 
a seeming resolution to enter it, but presently resumed her 
way. Instead of pursuing her steps further, Sarah had 
stopped to communicate this intelligence to Constantia. 
Having delivered her news, she hastened away, but return- 
ing, in a moment, with a countenance of new surprise, she 
informed her mistress, that on leaving the house she had met 
Miss Monrose at the door, on the point of entering. She 
added that the stranger had inquired for Constantia, and 
was now waiting below. 

Constantia took no time to reflect upon an incident so un- 
expected and so strange, but proceeded forthwith to the 
pai'lor. Martinette only was there. It did not instantly 
occur to her that this lady and Mademoiselle Monrose 
might possibly be the same. The inquiries she made speed- 
ily removed her doubts, and it now appeared tliat the woman, 
about whose destiny she had formed so many conjectures, 
and fostered so much anxiety, was no other than the daugh- 
ter of Roselli. 

Having readily answered her questions, Martinette in- 
quired in her turn, into the motives of her friend’s curiosity. 
These were explained by a succinct account of the transac- 
tions, to which the deceased Baxter had been a witness. 
Constantia concluded, with mentioning her own reflections 
on the tale, and intimating her wish to be informed how 
Martinette had extricated herself from a situation so calami- 
tous. 

Is there any room for wonder on that head 9 replied the 
guest. It was absurd to stay longer in the house. Having 
finished the interment of Roselli, (soldier fashion,) for he 
was the man who suffered his foolish regrets to destroy him, 
I forsook the house. Roselli was by no means poor, but he 
could not consent to live at ease, or to live at all, while his 
country endured such horrible oppressions, and when so 
many of his friends had perished. I complied with his 
humor, because it could not be changed, and I revered 
him too much to desert him. 


184 


ORMOND. 


But whither, said Constantia, could you seek shelter at a 
time like tliat 9 The city was desolate, and a wandering 
female could scarcely be received under any roof. All in- 
habited houses were closed at that hour, and tlie fear of in- 
fection would have shut them against you, if they had not 
been already so. 

Hast thou forgotten that there were at that time, at least ten 
thousand French in this city, fugitives from Marat and from 
St. Domingo That tliey lived in utter fearlessness of the 
reigning disease ; sung and loitered in the public walks, and 
prattled at their doors, with all their customary unconcern 9 
Supposest thou that there were none among these, who 
would receive a country woman,even if her name had not been 
Martinette de Beauvais Thy fancy has depicted strange 
things, but believe me, that, without a farthing and without 
a name, I should not have incurred the slightest inconveni- 
ence. The death of Roselli I foresaw, because it was grad- 
ual in its approach, and was sought by him as a good. My 
grief, therefore, was exliausted, before it came, and I re- 
joiced at his death, because it was the close of all his sor- 
rows. The rueful pictures of my distress and weakness, 
which were given by Baxter, existed only in his own fancy. 

Martinette pleaded an engagement, and took her leave, 
professing to have come merely to leave with her the pro- 
mised manuscript. This interview, though short, was produc- 
tive of many reflections, on the deceitfulness of appearances, 
and on the variety of maxims by which the conduct of 
human beings is regulated. She was accustomed to impart 
all her thoughts and relate every new incident to her father. 
Witli this view she now hied to his apartment. This hour 
it was her custom, when disengaged, always to spend witlt 
him. 

She found Mr. Dudley busy in revolving a scheme, which 
various circumstances had suggested and gradually conduct- 
ed to maturity. No period of his life had been equally de- 
lightful, with that portion of his youtli which he had spent in 
Italy. The climate, the language, the manners of tlie 
people, and the sources of intellectual gratification, in paint- 
ing and music, were congenial to his taste. He had reluc- 
tantly forsaken these enchanting seats, at the summons of 
his father, but, on his return to his native country, had en- 


ORMOND. 


185 


countered nothing but ignominy and pain. Poverty and 
blindness had beset his path, and it seemed as if it were im- 
possible to fly too far from the scene of his disasters. His 
misfortunes could not be concealed from others, and every 
thing around him seemed to renew die memory of all that 
he had suffered. All the events of his youth serv^ed to 
entice him to Italy, while all the incidents of his subsequent 
life, concurred to render disgustful his present abode. 

His daughter’s happiness was not to be forgotten. This 
he imagined would be eminently promoted by the scheme. 
It would open to her new avenues to knowledge. It would 
snatch her from the odious pursuit of Ormond, and by a 
variety of objects and adventures, efface from her mind any 
impression which his dangerous artifices might have made 
upon it. 

This project was now communicated to Constantia. 
Every argument adapted to influence her choice, was em- 
ployed. He justly conceived that the only obstacle to her 
adoption of it, related to Ormond. He expatiated on the 
dubious character of this man, the wildness of his schemes, 
and the magnitude of his errors. What could be expected 
from a man, half of whose life had been spent at the head of 
a band of Cassacks, spreading devastation in the regions of 
the Danube, and supporting by flagitious intrigues, the ty- 
ranny of Catharine, and the otlier half in traversing inhos- 
pitable countries, and extinguishing what remained of* cle- 
mency and justice, by intercourse with savages 

It was admitted that his energies were great, but misdi- 
rected, and that to restore them to the guidance of truth, 
was not in itself impossible, but it was so with relation to 
any power that she possessed. Conformity would flow 
from their marriage, but tliis conformity was not to be ex- 
pected from him. It was not his custom to abjure any of 
his doctrines or recede from any of his claims. She 
knew likewise the conditions of their union. She must go 
with him to some corner of the world, where his boasted 
system was established. What was the road to it, he had 
carefully concealed, but it was evident that it lay beyond the 
precincts of civilized existence. 

16 * 


180 


ORMOND. 


Whatever were her ultimate decision, it was at least 
proper to delay it. Six years were yet wanting of that pe- 
riod, at which only she formerly considered mariiage as 
proper. To all the general motives for deferring her choice, 
the conduct of Ormond superadded the weightiest. Their 
correspondence might continue, but her residence in Europe 
and converse with mankind, might enlighten her judgment 
and qualify her for a more rational decision. 

Constantia was not uninfluenced by these reasonings. Li- 
stead of reluctantly admitting them, she somewhat wonder- 
ed that they had not been suggested by her own reflections. 
Her imagination anticipated her entrance on that mighty 
scene with emotions little less than rapturous. Her studies 
had conferred a thousand ideal charms on a theatre, where 
Scipio and Caesar had performed their parts. Her wishes 
were no less importunate to gaze upon the Alps and Pyre- 
nees, and to vivify and chasten the images collected from 
books, by comparing them with their real prototypes. 

No social ties existed to hold her to America. Her only 
kinsman and friend would be the companion of her journeys. 
This project was likewise recommended by advantages of 
which she only was qualified to judge. Sophia West- 
wyn had embarked, four years previous to this date, for 
England, in company with an English lady and her husband. 
The arrangements that were made forbade either of the 
friends to hope for a future meeting. Yet now, by virtue 
of this project, this meeting seemed no longer to be hope- 
less. 

This burst of new ideas and new hopes on the mind of 
Constantia took place in the course of a single hour. No 
change in her external situation had been wrought, and yet 
her mind had undergone the most signal revolution. The 
novelty as well as greatness of the prospect kept her in a 
state of elevation and awe, more ravishing than any she had 
ever experienced. Anticipations of intercourse with nature 
in her most august forms, with men in diversified states of 
society, witli the posterity of Greeks and Romans, and with 
the actors that were now upon the stage, and above all witit 
the being whom absence and tlie want of other attachments, 
had, in some sort, contributed to deify, made this night pass 
away upon the wings of transport. 


ORMOND. 


187 

The hesitation which existed on parting with her father, 
speedily gave place to an ardor impatient of the least delay. 
She saw no impediments to the immediate commencement 
of the voyage. To delay it a month or even a week, seem- 
ed to be unprofitable tardiness. In this ferment of her 
thoughts, she was neitlier able nor willing to sleep. In 
arranging the means of departure and anticipating the events 
that would successively arise, there was abundant food for 
contemplation. 

She marked the first dawnings of the day, and rose. She 
felt reluctance to break upon her father’s morning slumbers, 
but considered that her motives were extremely urgent, and 
that the pleasure afforded him by her zealous approbation 
of his scheme, would amply compensate him for this unsea- 
sonable intrusion on his rest. She hastened therefore to his 
chamber. She entered with blithsome steps, and softly drew 
aside the curtain. 


CHAPTER XXn. 

Unhappy Constantia ! At the moment when thy dearest 
hopes had budded afresh, when the clouds of insecurity and 
disquiet had retired from thy vision, wast thou assailed by 
the great subverter of human schemes. Thou sawest noth- 
ing in futurity but an eternal variation and succession of 
delights. Thou wast hastening to forget dangers and sor- 
rows which thou fondly imaginedst were never to return. 
This day was to be the outset of a new career ; existence 
was henceforth to be embellished with enjoyments, hitherto 
scarcely within the reach of hope. 

Alas ! Thy predictions of calamity seldom failed to be 
verified. Not so thy prognostics of pleasure. These, 
though fortified by every calculation of contingencies, were 
edifices grounded upon nothing. Thy life was a struggle 
with malignant destiny ; a contest for happiness in which 
thou wast fated to be overcome. 

She stooped to kiss the venerable cheek of her father, 
and, by whispering, to break his slumber. Her eye wa^ no 


ORMOND. 


188 

sooner fixed upon his countenance, than she started back 
and shrieked. She had no power to forbear. Her out- 
cries were piercing and vehement. Tiiey ceased only with 
the cessation of breath. She sunk upon a chair in a state 
partaking more of death than of life, mechanically prompt- 
ed to give vent to her agonies in shrieks, but incapable of 
uttering a sound. 

The alarm called her servants to the spot. They be- 
held her dumb, wildly gazing, and gesticulating in a way 
that indicated frenzy. She made no resistance to their 
efforts, but permitted them to carry her back to her own 
chamber. Sarah called upon her to speak, and to explain 
the cause of these appearances, but the shock which she 
had endured, seemed to have irretrievably destroyed her 
powers of utterance. 

The terrors of the affectionate Sarah were increased. 
She kneeled by the bedside of her mistress, and with 
streaming eyes, besought the unhappy lady to compose 
herself. Perhaps the sight of weeping in another possess- 
ed a sympathetic influence, or nature had made provision 
for this salutary change. However that be, a torrent of 
tears now came to her succor, and rescued her from a 
paroxysm of insanity, which its longer continuance might 
have set beyond the reach of cure. 

Meanwhile, a glance at his master’s countenance made 
Fabian fully acquainted with the nature of the scene. The 
ghastly %dsage of Mr. Dudley shewed that he was dead, 
and that he had died in some terrific and mysterious man- 
ner. As soon as this faithful servant recovered from sur- 
prise, die first expedient which his ingenuity suggested, 
was to fly with tidings of this event to Mr. JMelbourne. 
That gentleman instantly obeyed the summons. With the 
power of weeping, Constantia recovered the power of re- 
flection. This, for a time, served her only as a medium 
of anguish. Melbourne mingled liis tears with hers, and 
endeavored, by suitable remonstrances, to revive her for- 
titude. 

The filial passion is perhaps instinctive to man ; but its 
energy is modified by various circumstances. Every event 
in the life of Constantia contributed to heighten this passion 
beyond customary bounds. In the habit of perpetual at- 


ORMOND. 


189 

tendance on her father, of deriving from him her know- 
ledge, and sharing witli him the hourly fruits of observation 
and reflection, his existence seemed blended with her own. 
There was no other whose concurrence and council she 
could claim, with whom a domestic and uninterrupted aUi- 
ance could be maintained. The only bond of consangui- 
nity was loosened, the only prop of friendship was taken 
away. 

Otliers, perhaps, would have observed, that her father’s 
existence had been merely a source of obstruction and per- 
plexity ; that she had liitherto acted by her own wisdom, 
and would find, hereafter, less difficulty in her choice of 
schemes, and fewer impediments to the execution. Tliese 
reflections occurred not to her. This disaster had increased, 
to an insupportable degree, the vacancy and dreariness of 
her existence. The face she was habituated to behold, had 
disappeared forever ; the voice, whose mild and affecting 
tones had so long been familiar to her ears, was hushed into 
eternal silence. The felicity to which she clung was ravish- 
ed away ; nothing remained to hinder her from sinking into 
utter despair. 

Tlie first transports of grief having subsided, a source of 
consolation seemed to be opened in the belief that her father 
had only changed one form of being for another ; that he 
still lived to be the guardian of her peace and honor ; to 
enter the recesses of her thought ; to forewarn her ^of evil 
and invite her to good. She grasped at these images with 
eagerness, and fostered tliem as the only solaces of her 
calamity. They were not adapted to inspire her with cheer- 
fulness, but they sublimed her sensations, and added an 
inexplicable fascination to sorrow. 

It was unavoidable sometimes to reflect upon the nature 
of that death which had occurred. Tokens were sufficiently 
apparent that outward violence had been the cause. Who 
could be the performer of so black a deed, by what motives 
he was guided were topics of fruitless conjecture. She 
mused upon this subject, not from the thirst of vengeance, 
but from a mournful curiosity. Had the perpetrator stood 
before her, and challenged retribution, she would not have 
lifted a finger to accuse or to punish. The evil already en- 
dured, left her no power to concert and execute projects 


ORMOND. 


i90 

for extending that evil to others. Her mind was unnerved, 
and recoiled with loathing from considerations of abstract 
justice, or political utility, when tliey prompted to the prose- 
cution of the murderer. 

Melbourne was actuated by different views, but, on this 
subject, he was painfully bewildered. Mr. Dudley’s deport- 
ment to liis servants and neighbors, was gentle and humane. 
He had no dealings with the trafficking or laboring part of 
mankind. The fund which supplied his cravings of neces- 
sity or habit, was his daughter’s. His recreations and 
employments were harmless and lonely. The evil purpose 
was limited to his death, for his chamber was exactly in 
the same state in which negligent security had left it. No 
midnight footstep or voice, no unbarred door or lifted 
window afforded tokens of the presence, or traces of the 
entrance or flight of the assassin. 

The meditations of Constantia however, could not fail, 
in some of their circuities, to encounter the image of Craig. 
His agency in the impoverishment of her father, and in the 
scheme by which she had like to have been loaded with 
the penalties of forgery, was of an impervious and unpre- 
cedented kind. Motives were unveiled by time, in some 
degree, accounting for his treacherous proceeding, but there 
was room to suppose an inborn propensity to mischief. 
Was he not the author of this new evil His motives and 
his moans were equally inscrutable, but their inscrutability 
might flow from her own defects in discernment and know- 
ledge, and time might supply her defects in this as in 
former instances. 

These images were casual. Tlie causes of the evil were 
seldom contemplated. Her mind was rarely at liberty to 
wander from reflection on her irremediable loss. Frequently, 
when confused by distressful recollections, she would detect 
herself going to her father’s chamber. Often his well known 
accents would ring in her ears, and the momentary impulse 
would be to answer his calls. Her reluctance to sit down to 
her meals, without her usual companion, could scarcely be 
surmounted. 

In this state of mind the image of the only friend who sur- 
vived, or whose destiny, at least, was doubtful, occurred to 
her. She sunk into (its of deeper abstraction and dissolved 


ORMOND. 


191 

away in tears of more agonizing tenderness. A week after 
her father’s interment, she shut herself up in her chamber, to 
torment herself with fruitless remembrances. The name of 
Sophia Westwyn was pronounced, and the ditty that solem- 
nized their parting was sung. Now, more than formerly, 
she became sensible of the loss of that portrait, which had 
been deposited in the hands of M’Crea, as a pledge. As 
soon as her change of fortune had supplied her with the 
means of redeeming it, she hastened to M’Crea for that end. 
To her unspeakable disappointment he was absent from the 
city ; he had taken a long journey, and the exact period of 
his return could not be ascertained. His clerks refused to 
deliver the picture, or even, by searching, to discover whe- 
ther it was still in their master’s possession. This application 
had frequently and lately been repeated, but without success; 
M’Crea had not yet returned and his family were equally in 
the dark, as to the day on which his return might be ex- 
pected. 

She determined on this occasion, to renew her visit. Her 
incessant disappointments had almost extinguished hope, and 
she made inquiries at his door, with a faltering accent and 
^king heart. These emotions were changed into surprise 
and delight, when answer was made that he had just arrived. 
She was instantly conducted into his presence. 

The countenance of M’Crea easily denoted, that his visit-'' 
ant was by no means acceptable. There was a mixture of 
embarrassment and sullenness in his air, which was far from 
being diminished when the purpose of this visit was explain- 
ed. Constantia reminded him of the offer and acceptance 
of this pledge, and of the conditions with which the transac- 
tion was accompanied. 

He acknowledged, with some hesitation, that a promise 
had been given to retain the pledge until it were in her pow- 
er to redeem it, but the long delay, the urgency of his own 
wants, and particularly the ill treatment which he conceived 
himself to have suffered, in the transaction respecting the 
forged note, had, in his own opinion, absolved him from this 
promise. He had therefore sold the picture to a goldsmith, 
for as much as the gold about it was worth. 

This information produced, in tlie heart of Constantia, a 
contest between indignation and sorrow, that, for a time, de- 


OilMOND. 


192 

barred her from speech. She stifled the anger that was, at 
length, rising to her lips, and calmly inquired to whom the 
picture had been sold. 

M’Crea answered that for his part he had little dealings in 
gold and silver, but every thing of that kind, which fell to his 
share, he transacted with Mr. — . This person was 

one of the most eminent of his profession. His character 
and place of abode were universally known. The only ex- 
pedient that remained was to apply to him, and to ascertain, 
forthwith, the destiny of the picture. It was too probable, 
that when separated from its case, the portrait was thrown 
away or destroyed, as a mere incumbrance, but the truth 
was too momentous to be made the sport of mere proba- 
bility. She left the house of M’Crea, and hastened to that 
of the goldsmith. 

The circumstance was easily recalled to his remembrance. 
It was true that such a picture had been offered for sale, and 
that he had purchased it. The workmanship was curious, 
and he felt unwilling to destroy it. He therefore hung it up 
in his shop and indulged the hope that a purchaser would, 
sometime, be attracted by the mere beauty of the toy. 

Constantia’s hopes were revived by these tidings, and she 
earnestly inquired if it were still in his possession. 

No. A young gentleman had entered his shop some 
months before ; the picture had caught his fancy, and he 
had given a price which the artist owned he should not have 
demanded, had he not been encouraged by the eagerness 
which the gentleman betrayed to possess it. 

Who was tliis gentleman Had there been any previous 
acquaintance between them 9 What was his name, his pro- 
fession, and where was he to be found 

Really, the goldsmith answered, he was ignorant respect- 
ing all those particulars. Previously to this purchase, the 
gentleman had sometimes visited his shop, but he did not re- 
collect to have since seen him. He was unacquainted with 
his name and his residence. 

What appeared to be his motives for purchasing this pic- 
ture ^ 

The customer appeared highly pleased with it. Pleasure, 
rather than surprise, seemed to be produced by the sight of 
it. If I were permitted to judge, continued the artist, I 


ORMOND. 


mi 

should imagine that the young man was acquainted with the 
original. To say the truth, I hinted as much at the time, 
and I did not see that he discouraged the supposition. In- 
deed, I cannot conceive how the picture could otherwise 
have gained any value in his eyes. 

This only heightened the eagerness of Constantia to trace 
the footsteps of the youth. It was obvious to suppose some 
communication or connexion between her friend and this 
purchaser. She repeated her inquiries, and the goldsmith, 
after some consideration, said ; — Why, on second thoughts, I 
seem to have some notion of having seen a figure like that 
of my customer, go into a lodging house, in Front-Street, 
some time before I met with him at my shop. 

The situation of this house being satisfactorily described, 
and the artist being able to afford her no further information, 
except as to stature and guise, she took her leave. There 
were two motives impelling her to prosecute her search after 
this person ; the desire of regaining tliis portrait and of pro- 
curing tidings of her friend. Involved as she was in igno- 
rance, it was impossible to conjecture, how far this incident 
would be subservient to these inestimable purposes. To 
procure an interview with this stranger, was the first measure 
which prudence suggested. 

She knew not his name or his person. He was once seen 
entering a lodging house. Thither she must immediately re- 
pair, but how to introduce herself, how to describe the per- 
son of whom she was in search, she knew not. She was 
beset with embarrassments and difficulties. While her at- 
tention was entangled by these, she proceeded unconscious- 
ly on her way, and stopped not until she reached the man- 
sion that had been described. Here she paused to collect 
her thoughts. 

She found no relief in deliberation. Every moment add- 
ed to her perplexity and indecision. Irresistibly impelled 
by her wishes, she at length, in a mood that partook of des- 
perate, advanced to the door and knocked. The summons 
was immediately obeyed by a woman of decent appeai ance. 
A pause ensued, which Constantia at length terminated, by 
a request to see the mistress of tlie house. 

17 


194 


ORMOND. 


The lady courteously answered that she was the person, 
and immediately ushered her visitant into an apartment. 
Constantia being seated, the lady waited for the disclosure of 
her message. To prolong the silence was only to multiply 
embarrassments. She reverted to the state of her feelings, 
and saw that they flowed from inconsistency and folly. One 
vigorous effort was sufficient to restore her to composure 
and self-command. 

She began with apologizing for a visit, unpreceded by an 
introduction. The object of her inquiries was a person, with 
whom it was of the utmost moment that she should procure 
a meeting, but whom, by an unfortunate concurrence of cir- 
cumstances, she was unable to describe by the usual inci- 
dents of name and profession. Her knowledge was con- 
fined to his external appearance, and to the probability of his 
being an inmate of this house, at the beginning of the year. 
She then proceeded to describe his person and dress. 

It is true, said the lady, such a one as you describe has 
boarded in this house. His name was Martynne. I have 
good reason to remember liim, for he lived with me three 
months, and then left the country without paying for his board. 

He has gone, then f said Constantia, greatly discouraged 
by these tidings. 

Yes ; he was a man of specious manners and loud pre- 
tensions. He came from England, bringing with him forged 
recommendatory letters, and after passing from one end of 
the country to the other, contracting debts which he never 
paid, and making bargains which he never fulfilled, he sud- 
denly disappeared. It is likely that he has returned to Eu- 
rope. 

Had he no kindred, no friends, no companions ? 

He found none here. He made pretences to alliances in 
England, which better information has, I believe, since shewn 
to be false. 

This was the sum of the information procurable from this 
source. Constantia was unable to conceal her chagrin. 
These symptoms were observed by the lady, whose curiosity 
was awakened in turn. Questions were obliquely started, 
inviting Constantia to a disclosure of her thoughts. No ad- 
vantage would arise from confidence, and the guest, after a 
few minutes of abstraction and silence, rose to take her leave. 


ORMOND. 


195 


During this conference, some one appeared to be negli- 
gently sporting with the keys of a harpsichord, in the next 
apartment. The notes were too irregular and faint to make 
a forcible impression on the ear. In the present state of her 
mind, Constantia was merely conscious of the sound, in the 
intervals of conversation. Having arisen from her seat, her 
anxiety to obtain some information that might lead to the 
point she wished, made her again pause. She endeavored 
to invent some new interrogatory better suited to her purpose, 
than tliose which had, already, been employed. A silence 
on both sides ensued. 

During this interval, tlie unseen musician suddenly refrain- 
ed from rambling, and glided into notes of some refinement 
and complexity. The cadence was aerial, but a tliunderbolt, 
falling at her feet, would not have communicated a more 
\isible shock to the senses of Constantia. A glance that 
denoted a tumult of soul bordering on distraction, was now 
fixed upon the door, that led into the room whence the har- 
mony proceeded. Instantly the cadence was revived, and 
some accompanying voice, was heard to wai’ble 

Ah ! far beyond this world of woes. 

We meet to part — to part no more. 

Joy and grief in their sudden onset, and their violent ex- 
tremes, approach so nearly, in their influence on human be- 
ings, as scarce to be distinguished. Constantia’s frame was 
still enfeebled by her recent distresses. The torrent of 
emotion was too abrupt and too vehement. Her faculties 
were overwhelmed, and she sunk upon the floor motionless 
and without sense, but not till she had faintly articulated : — 

My God ! My God ! This is a joy unmerited and too 
great. 


CHAPTER XXm. 

I MUST be forgiven if I now introduce myself on the stage. 
Sophia Westwyn is the friend of Constantia, and tlie writer 
of this narrative. So far as my fate was connected with 


196 


ORMOND. 


that of my friend, it is worthy to be known. That connex- 
ion has constituted the joy and misery of my existence, and 
has prompted me to undertake this task. 

I assume no merit from the desire of knowledge, and su- 
periority to temptation. There is little of which I can boast, 
but that little I derived, instrumentally, from Constantia. 
Poor as my attainments are, it is to her that I am indebted 
for them all. Life itself was the gift of her fatlier, but my 
virtue and felicity are her gifts. That I am neither indigent 
nor profligate, flows from her bounty. 

I am not unaware of the divine superintendence, of the 
claims upon my gratitude and service, which pertain to my 
God. I know that all physical and moral agents are mere- 
ly instrumental to the purpose that he wills, bat though the 
great Autlior of being and felicity must not be forgotten, it is 
neither possible nor just to overlook the claims upon our love, 
\vith which our fellow-beings are invested. 

The supreme love does not absorb, but chasten and en- 
force all subordinate affections. In proportion to the recti- 
tude of my perceptions and the ardor of my piety, must I 
clearly discern and fervently love, the excellence discovered 
hi my fellow-beings, and industriously promote their improve- 
ment and felicity. 

From my infancy to my seventeenth year, I lived in the 
house of Mr. Dudley. On the day of my birth I was de- 
serted by my motlier. Her temper was more akin to that 
of tygress than woman. Yet that is unjust, for beasts che- 
rish their offspring. No natures but human, are capable of 
that depravity, wliich makes insensible to the claims of inno- 
cence and helplessness. 

But let me not recall her to memory. Have I not enough 
of sorrow'? Yet to omit my causes of disquiet, the unpre- 
cedented forlornness of my condition, and the persecutions 
of an unnatural parent, would be to leave my character a 
problem, and the sources of my love of Miss Dudley unex- 
plored. Yet I must not dwell upon that complication of in- 
iquities, that savage ferocity and unextinguishable hatred of 
me, which characterized my unhappy mother ! 

I was not safe under the protection of Mr. Dudley, nor 
happy in the caresses of his daughter. My mother asserted 
the privilege of that relation ; she labored for years to ob- 


ORMONDv 


197 


tain the control of my person and actions ; to snatch me 
from a peaceful and chaste asylum, and detain me in her 
own house, where, indeed, I should not have been in want 
of raiment and food, but where 

O my mother ! Let me not dishonor thy name ! Yet it 
is not in my power to enhance thy infamy. Thy crimes, 
unequalled as they were, were, perhaps, expiated by thy 
penitence. Thy offences are too well known, but perhaps 
they who witnessed thy freaks of intoxication, thy defiance 
of public shame, the enormity of thy pollutions, the infatuation 
that made thee glory in the pursuit of a loathsome and 
detestable trade, may be strangers to the remorse and the 
abstinence which accompanied the close of thy ignominious 
life. 

For ten years was my peace incessantly molested, by the 
menaces or machinations of my mother. The longer she 
meditated my destruction, the more tenacious of her purpose, 
and indefatigable in her efforts, she became. That my 
mind was harassed with perpetual alarms, was not enough. 
The fame and tranquillity of Mr. Dudley and his daughter, 
were hourly assailed. My mother resigned herself to the 
impulses of malignity and rage. Headlong passions and a 
vigorous, though perverted understanding, were her’s. Hence 
her stratagems to undermine the reputation of my protector, 
and to bereave him of domestic comfort, were subtle and 
profound. Had she not herself been careless of that good, 
which she endeavored to wrest from others, her artifices 
could scarcely have been frustrated. 

In proportion to the hazard which accrued to my protector 
and friend, the more ardent their zeal in my defence, and 
dieir affection for my person became. They watched over 
me ^vith ineffable solicitude. At all hours and in every oc- 
cupation, I was the companion of Constantia. All my 
wants were supplied, in the same proportion as her’s. The 
tenderness of Mr. Dudley seemed equally divided between 
us. I partook of his instructions, and the means of every 
intellectual and personal gratification, were lavished upon 
me. 

The speed of my mother’s career in infamy, was at length 
slackened. She left New-York, which had long been the 
17 * 


ORMOND. 


198 

theatre of her vices. Actuated by a new caprice, she de- 
termined to travel through the Southern States. Early in- 
dulgence was the cause of her ruin, but her parents had 
given her the embellishments of a fasliionable education. 
She delighted to assume all parts, and personate the most 
opposite characters. She now resolved to carry a new 
name and the mask of virtue, into scenes hitherto unvisited. 

She journeyed as far as Charleston. Here she met an 
inexperienced youth, lately arrived from England, and in 
possession of an ample fortune. Her speciousness and 
artifices seduced liim into a precipitate marriage. Her 
true character, however, could not be long concealed by 
herself, and her vices had been too conspicuous, for her 
long to escape recognition. Her husband was infatuated 
by her blandishments. To abandon her, or to contemplate 
her depravity with unconcern, were equally beyond liis 
power. Romantic in his sentiments, his fortitude was une- 
qual to his disappointments, and he speedily sunk into the 
grave. By a similar refinement in generosity, he bequeath- 
ed to her his property. 

With this accession of wealth, she returned to her ancient 
abode. The mask, lately worn, seemed preparing to be 
thrown aside, and her profligate habits to be resumed with 
more eagerness than ever, but an unexpected and total 
revolution was effected, by the exhortations of a Methodist 
divine. Her heart seemed, on a sudden, to be remoulded, 
her vices and the abettors of them were abjured, she shut 
out the intrusions of society, and prepared to expiate, by 
the rigors of abstinence and tlie bitterness of tears, the 
offences of her past life. 

In this, as in her former career, she was unacquainted 
with restraint and moderation. Her remorses gained strength, 
in proportion as she cherished them. She brooded over 
the images of her guilt, till the possibility of forgiveness and 
remission disappeared. Her treatment of her daughter and 
her husband constituted the cliief source of her torment. 
Her awakened conscience refused her a momentary respite 
from its persecutions. Her thoughts became, by rapid de- 
grees, tempestuous and gloomy, and it was at length evident, 
ffiat her condition was maniacal. 


ORMOND. 


199 

In this state, she was to me an object, no longer of terror, 
but compassion. She was surrounded by hirelings, devoid 
of personal attachment, and anxious only to convert her 
misfortunes to their own advantage. This evil it was my 
duty to obviate. My presence for a time, only enlianced 
tlie vehemence of her malady, but at lengtli it was only by 
my attendance and soothing, that she was diverted from the 
fellest purposes. Shocking execrations and outrages, reso- 
lutions and efforts to destroy herself and those around her, 
were sure to take place in my absence. The moment I 
appeared before her, her fury abated ; her gesticulations 
were becalmed, and her voice exerted only in incoherent 
and pathetic lamentations. 

These scenes, though so different from those which I had 
formerly been condemned to witness, were scarcely less ex- 
cruciating. The friendship of Constantia Dudley was my 
only consolation. She took up her abode with me, and 
shared with me every disgustful and perilous office, which 
my mother’s insanity prescribed. 

Of this consolation, however, it was my fate to be be- 
reaved. My mother’s state was deplorable, and no remedy 
hitherto employed, was efficacious. A voyage to England, 
was conceived likely to benefit, by change of temperature 
and scenes, and by the opportunity it would afford of trying 
tlie superior skill of English physicians. This scheme, after 
various struggles, on my part, was adopted. It was detesta- 
ble to my imagination, because it severed me fi’om that friend, 
in whose existence mine was involved, and without whose 
pai’ticipation, knowledge lost its atti'actions, and society be- 
came a torment. 

The prescriptions of my duty could not be disguised or 
disobeyed, and we parted. A mutual engagement was 
formed, to record every sentiment and relate every event 
that happened, in the life of either, and no opportunity of 
communicating information, was to be omitted. This en- 
gagement was punctually performed on my part. I sought 
out every method of conveyance to my friend, and took in- 
finite pains to procure tidings from her, but all were in- 
effectual. 

My mother’s malady declined, but was succeeded by a 
pulmonary disease, which threatened her speedy destruction. 


200 


ORMOND. 


By the restoration of her understanding, tlie purpose of her 
voyage was obtained, and my impatience to return, w^hich 
tlie inexplicable and ominous silence of my friend daily in- 
creased, prompted me to exert all my powers of persuasion, 
to induce her to revisit America. 

My mother’s frenzy was a salutary crisis in her moral 
history. She looked back upon her past conduct with un- 
speakable loatliing, but this retrospect only invigorated her 
devotion and her virtue ; but the thought of returning to the 
scene of her unliappiness and infamy could not be endured. 
Besides, life in her eyes, possessed considerable attractions, 
and her physicians flattered her with recovery from her 
present disease, if she would change the atmosphere of Eng- 
land for that of Languedoc and Naples. 

I followed her with murmurs and reluctance. To desert 
her in her present critical state would have been inhuman. 
My motlier’s aversions and attachments, habits and views 
were dissonant with my own. Conformity of sentiments 
and impressions of “maternal tenderness, did not exist to bind 
us to each other. My attendance was assiduous, but it was 
the sense of duty that rendered my attendance a supporta- 
ble task. 

Her decay was eminently gradual. No time seemed to 
diminish her appetite for novelty and change. During three 
years we traversed every part of France, Switzerland and 
Italy. I could not but attend to surrounding scenes, and 
mark the progress of the mighty revolution, whose effects, 
like agitation in a fluid, gradually spread from Paris, the 
centre, over the face of the neighboring kingdoms ; but 
tliere passed not a day or an hour in which the image of 
Constantia was not recaUed, in which the most pungent 
regrets were not felt at the inexplicable silence which had 
been observed by her, and the most vehement longings in- 
dulged to return to my native country. ]\Iy exeinions to 
ascertain her condition by indirect means, by interrogating 
natives of America, with whom I chanced to meet, were 
unwearied, but, for a long period, ineffectual. 

During this pilgrimage, Rome was tlirice visited. My 
mother’s indisposition was hastening to a crisis, and she 
formed the resolution of closing her life at the bottom of 
Vesuvius. We stopped, for the sake of a few day’s repose. 


ORMOND. 


201 


at Rome. On the morning after our arrival, I accompanied 
some friends to view the public edifices. Casting my eyes 
over the vast and ruinous interior of the Coliseo, my atten- 
tion was fixed by the figure of a young man, whom, after a 
moment’s pause, I recollected to have seen in the streets of 
New York. At a distance from home, mere community of 
country is no inconsiderable bond of affection. The social 
spirit prompts us to cling even to inanimate objects, when 
they remind us of ancient fellowships and juvenile attach- 
ments. 

A servant was despatched to summon this stranger, who 
recognised a country-woman with a pleasure equal to that 
which I had received. On nearer view, this person, whose 
name was Courtland, did not belie my favorable preposses- 
sions. Our intercourse was soon established on a footing 
of confidence and intimacy. 

The destiny of Constantia was always uppermost in my 
thoughts. This person’s acquaintance was originally sought, 
chiefly in the hope of obtaining from him some information 
respecting my friend. On inquiry I discovered that he had 
left his native city, seven months after me. Having tasked 
his recollection and compared a number of facts, the name 
of Dudley at length reoccurred to him. He had casually 
heard the history of Craig’s imposture and its consequences. 
These were now related as circumstantially as a memory, 
occupied by subsequent incidents, enabled him. The tale 
had been told to him, in a domestic circle which he was ac- 
customed to frequent, by the person who purchased Mr. 
Dudley’s lute, and restored it to its previous owner, on the 
conditions formerly mentioned. 

This tale filled me with anguish and doubt. My impa- 
tience to search out this unfortunate girl, and share with her 
her sorrows or relieve them, was anew excited by this 
mournful intelligence. That Constantia Dudley was reduc- 
ed to beggary, was too abhorrent to my feelings to receive 
credit, yet the sale of her father’s property, comprising even 
his furniture and clothing, seemed to prove that she had 
fallen even to this depth. This enabled me in some degree 
to account for her silence. Her generous spirit would in- 
duce her to conceal misfortunes from her friend, which no 


ORMOND. 


202 

communication would alleviate. It was possible that she 
had selected some new abode, and that in consequence, the 
letters I had written, and which amounted to volumes, had 
never reached her hands. 

My mother’s state would not suffer me to obey the im- 
pulse of my heart. Her frame was verging towards dis- 
solution. Courtland’s engagements allowed him to accom- 
pany us to Naples, and here the long series of my mother’s 
pilgrimages, closed in death. Her obsequies were no sooner 
performed, than I determined to set out on my long pro- 
jected voyage. My mother’s property, which, in conse- 
quence of her decease, devolved upon me, was not incon- 
siderable. There is scarcely any good so dear, to a 
rational being, as competence. I was not unacquainted 
with its benefits, but this acquisition was valuable to me 
chiefly as it enabled me to reunite my fate to that of Con- 
stantia. 

Courtland was my countryman and friend. He was 
destitute of fortune, and had been led to Europe partly by 
the spirit of adventure, and partly on a mercantile project. 
He had made sale of his property, on advantageous terms, 
in the ports of France, and resolved to consume the pro- 
duce in examining this scene of heroic exploits and me- 
morable revolutions. His slender stock, though frugally 
and even parsimoniously administered, was nearly exhaust- 
ed, and at the time of our meeting at Rome, he was making 
reluctant preparations to return. 

Sufficient opportunity was afforded us, in an unrestrained 
and domestic intercourse of three months, which succeed- 
ed our Roman interview, to gain a knowledge of each 
other. There was that conformity of tastes and views 
between us, which could scarcely fail, at an age, and in a 
situation like ours, to give birth to tenderness. My resolu- 
tion to hasten to America, was peculiarly unwelcome to my 
friend. He had offered to be my companion, but this offer, 
my regard to his interest obliged me to decline ; but I was 
willing to compensate him for this denial, as well as to 
gratify my own heart, by an immediate marriage. 

So long a residence in England and Italy, had given 
birth to friendships and connexions of the dearest kind. 


ORMOND. 


203 


I had no view but to spend my life with Courtland, in the 
midst of my maternd kindred, who were English. A 
voyage to America, and reunion with Constantia were pre- 
viously indispensable, but I hoped that my friend might be 
prevailed upon, and that her disconnected situation would 
permit her to return witli me to Europe. If this end could 
not be accomplished, it was my inflexible purpose to live and 
to die with her. Suitably to this arrangement, Courtland 
was to repair to London, and wait patiently till I should be 
able to rejoin him there, or to summon him to meet me in 
America. 

A week after my mother’s death, I became a wife, and 
embarked, the next day, at Naples, in a Ragusan ship, des- 
tined for New-York. The voyage was tempestuous and 
tedious. The vessel was necessitated to make a short stay 
at Toulon. Tlie state of that city, however, then in pos- 
session of the English, and besieged by the revolutionary 
forces, was adverse to commercial views. Happily, we re- 
sumed our voyage, on the day previous to that on which the 
place was evacuated by the British. Our seasonable de- 
paiture rescued us from witnessing a scene of horrors, of 
which the history of former wars, furnish us with few ex- 
amples. 

A cold and boisterous navigation awaited us. My pal- 
pitations and inquietudes augmented as we approached the 
American coast. I shall not forget the sensations which I 
experienced on the sight of the Beacon at Sandy-Hook. 
It was first seen at midnight, in a stormy and beclouded 
atmosphere, emerging from the waves, whose fluctuation 
allowed it, for some time, to be visible only by fits. Tliis 
token of approaching land, affected me as much as if I had 
reached the threshold of my friend’s dwelling. 

At length we entered the port, and I viewed, with high 
raised, but inexplicable feelings, objects with which I had 
been from infancy familiar. The flag-staff erected on the 
battery, recalled to my imagination the pleasures of the 
evening and morning walks, which I had taken on that spot, 
with the lost Constantia. The dream was fondly cherished, 
that the figure which I saw, loitering along the terrace, was 
Iier’s. 


ORMOND. 


204 

On disembarking, I gazed at every female passenger, in 
hope that it was she whom I sought. An absence of three 
years, had obliterated from my memory none of the images 
which attended me on my departure. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

After a night of repose rather than of sleep, I began 
the search after my friend. I went to the house which the 
Dudleys formerly inhabited, and which had been the asy- 
lum of my infancy. It was now occupied by strangers, by 
whom no account could be given of its former tenants. I 
obtained directions to the owner of the house. He was equal- 
ly unable to satisfy my curiosity. The purchase had been 
made at a public sale, and terms had been settled not with 
Dudley, but with the sheriff. 

It is needless to say, that the history of Craig’s impos- 
ture and its consequences, were confirmed by every one 
who resided at that period in New York. The Dudleys 
were well remembered, and their disappearance, immediately 
after their fall, had been generally noticed, but whither they 
had retired, was a problem which no one was able to solve. 

This evasion was strange. By what motives the Dud- 
leys were induced to change their ancient abode, could be 
vaguely guessed. My friend’s grandfather was a native of 
the West Indies. Descendants of the same stock still resid- 
ed in Tobago. They might be affluent, and to them it was 
possible, that Mr. Dudley, in this change of fortune, had be- 
taken himself for relief. This was a mournful expedient, 
since it would raise a barrier between my friend and myself 
scarcely to be surmounted. 

Constantia’s mother was stolen by Mr. Dudley from a 
convent at Amiens. There were no affinities, therefore, to 
draw them to France. Her grandmother was a native of 
Baltimore, of a family of some note, by name Ridgeley. 
This family might still exist, and have either afforded an 
asylum to the Dudleys, or, at least, be apprised of their des- 
tiny. It was obvious to conclude that they no longer exist- 


ORMOND. 


■205 


ed within the precincts of New York. A journey to Balti- 
more was the next expedient. 

This journey was made in the depth of winter, and by the 
speediest conveyance. I made no more than a day’s so- 
journ in Philadelphia. The epidemic by which that city had 
been lately ravaged, I had not heard of it till my arrival in 
America. Its devastations were then painted to my fancy 
in the most formidable colors. A few months only had 
elapsed since its extinction, and I expected to see numerous 
marks of misery and depopulation. 

To my no small surprise, however, no vestiges of this ca- 
lamity were to be discerned. All houses were open, all 
streets tlironged, and all faces thoughtless or busy. The 
arts and the amusements of life seemed as sedulously culti- 
vated as ever. Little did I then diink what had been, and 
what, at that moment, was the condition of my friend. I 
stopped for the sake of respite from fatigue, and did not, there- 
fore, pass much time in the streets. Perhaps, had I walked 
seasonably abroad, we might have encountered each other, 
and thus have saved ourselves from a thousand anxieties. 

At Baltimore I made myself known, without the forma- 
lity of introduction, to the Ridgeleys. They acknowledged 
their relationship to Mr. Dudley, but professed absolute ig- 
norance of his fate. Indirect intercourse only had been 
maintained, formerly, by Dudley vvitli his mother’s kindred. 
They had heard of his misfortune, a twelvemonth after it 
happened, but what measures had been subsequently pursu- 
ed, their kinsman had not thought proper to inform them. 

The failure of this expedient almost bereft me of hope. 
Neither my own imagination nor the Ridgeleys, could sug- 
gest any new mode by which my purpose was likely to be 
accomplished. To leave America, without obtaining the 
end of my visit, could not be thought of without agony, and 
yet the continuance of my stay promised me no relief from 
my uncertainties. 

On this theme I ruminated without ceasing. I recall- 
ed every conversation and incident of former times, and 
sought in them a clue, by which my present conjectures 
miglit be guided. One night, immersed alone in my cham- 
ber, my thoughts were thus employed. My train of medi- 
tation was, on this occasion, new. From tlie review of par- 
18 


ORMOND. 


206 

ticulars from which no satisfaction had hitherto been gained, 
I passed to a vague and comprehensive retrospect. 

Mr. Dudley’s early life, his profession of a painter, his 
zeal in this pursuit, and his reluctance to quit it, were re- 
membered. Would he not revert to this profession, when 
other means of subsistence were gone. It is true, similar 
obstacles witli those which had formerly occasioned his re- 
sort to a different path, existed at present, and no painter of 
his name was to be found in Philadelphia, Baltimore, or New 
York. But would it not occur to him, that the patronage 
denied to his skill, by the frugal and unpolished habits of his 
countrymen, might with more probability of success, be 
sought from tlie opulence and luxury of London Nay, had 
he not once affirmed in my hearing, that if he ever were re- 
duced to poverty, this was the method he would pursue 

This conjecture was too bewitching to be easily dismissed. 
Every new reflection augmented its force. I was suddenly 
raised by it from the deepest melancholy to the region of 
lofty and gay hopes. Happiness, of which I had began to 
imagine myself irretrievably bereft, seemed once more to 
approach within my reach. Constantia would not only be 
found, but be met in the midst of those comforts which her 
father’s skill could not fail to procure, and on that very stage 
where I most desired to encounter her. Mr. Dudley had 
many friends and associates of his youth in London. Filial 
duty had repelled their importunities to fix his abode in Eu- 
rope, when summoned home by his father. On his father’s 
death these solicitations had been renewed, but were disre- 
garded for reasons, which he, afterwards, himself confessed, 
were fallacious. That they would, a tliird time be preferred, 
and would regulate his conduct, seemed to me incontestable. 

I regarded with wonder and deep regret, the infatuation 
that had hitherto excluded these images from my understand- 
ing and my memory. How many dangers and toils had I 
endured since my embarkation at Naples, to the present 
moment f How many lingering minutes had I told since my 
first interview with Courtland ? All were owing to my own stu- 
pidity. Had my present thoughts been seasonably suggested, 
I might long since have been restored to the embraces of 
my Iriend, without the necessity of an hour’s separation 
from my husband. 


ORMOND. 


207 

These were evils to be repaired as far as it was possible. 
Nothing now remained but to procure a passage to Europe. 
For this end diligent inquiries were immediately set on foot. 
A vessel was found, which, in a few weeks, would set out upon 
the voyage. Having bespoken a conveyance, it was incum- 
bent on me to sustain with patience the unwelcome delay. 

Meanwhile, my mind, delivered from the dejection and 
perplexities that lately haunted it, was capable of some at- 
tention to surrounding objects. I marked the peculiarities 
of manners and language in my new abode, and studied the 
effects which a political and religious system, so opposite to 
that with which 1 had conversed, in Italy and Switzerland, 
had produced. I found that the difference between Europe 
and America, lay chiefly in this ; that, in the former, all 
things tended to extremes, whereas, in the latter, all things 
tended to the same level. Genius, and virtue, and happi- 
ness on these shores, were distinguished by a sort of medioc- 
rity. Conditions were less unequal, and men were strangers 
to the heights of enjoyment and the depths of misery, to 
which the inhabitants of Europe are accustomed. 

I received friendly notice and hospitable treatment from 
the Ridgeleys. These people were mercantile and plodding 
in their habits. I found in their social circle, little exercise 
for the sympathies of my heart, and willingly accepted their 
aid to enlarge the sphere of my observation. 

About a week before my intended embarkation, and when 
suitable preparation had been made for that event, a lady ar- 
rived in town, who was cousin to my Constantia. She had 
frequently been mentioned in favorable terms, in my hearing. 
She had passed her life, in a rural abode with her father, 
who cultivated his own domain, lying forty miles from Bal- 
timore. 

On an offer being made to introduce us to each other, I 
consented to know one whose chief recommendation, in my 
eyes, consisted in her affinity to Constantia Dudley. I found 
an artless and attractive female, unpolished and undepraved 
by much intercourse with mankind. At first sight, I wa«? 
powerfully struck by the resemblances of her features to 
those of my friend, which sufficiently denoted their connex- 
jon with a cornmon stock, 


208 


ORMOND. 


The first interview afforded mutual satisfaction. On our 
second meeting, discourse insensibly led to the mention of 
Miss Dudley, and of the design which had brought me to 
America. She was deeply affected by the earnestness with 
which 1 expatiated on her cousin’s merits, and by the proofs 
which my conduct had given of unlimited attachment. 

I dwelt immediately on the measures- which I had hitherto 
ineffectually pursued to tra;ce her footsteps, and detailed the 
grounds of my present belief, that we should meet in Lon- 
don. During this recital, my companion sighed and wept. 
When I finished my tale, her tears, instead of ceasing, flow- 
ed with new vehemence. This appearance excited some 
surprise, and I ventured to ask tlie cause of her grief. 

Alas ! She replied, I am personally a stranger to my 
cousin, but her character has been amply displayed to me 
by one who knew her well. 1 weep to think how much she 
has suffered. How much excellence we have lost ! 

Nay, said I, all her sufferings will, I hope, be compensated, 
and I by no means consider her as lost. If my search in 
London be unsuccessful, then shall I indeed despair. 

Despair then, already, said my sobbing companion, for 
your search will be unsuccessful. How I feel for your dis- 
appointment ! but it cannot be known too soon. My cousin 
is dead ! 

These tidings were communic^gd wdth tokens of sincerity 
and sorrow, that left me no room to doubt that they were 
believed by the relater. My own emotions were suspended 
till interrogations had obtained a know ledge of her reasons 
for crediting this fatal event, and till she had explained tlie 
time and manner of her death. A friend of Miss Ridgeley’s 
father had witnessed the devastations of the yellow fever in 
Philadelphia. He was apprised of the relationship that sub- 
sisted between his friend and tlie Dudleys. He gave a mi- 
nute and circumstantial account of the arts of Craig. He 
mentioned the removal of my friends to Philadelphia, theii* 
obscure and indigent life, and finally, their falling victims to 
the pestilence. 

He related tlie means by which he became apprised of 
their fate, and drew a picture of their death, surpassing all 
that imagination can conceive of sliocldng and deplorable. 


OHMOND. 

The quarter where they lived was nearly desolate. Their 
house was shut up, and, for a time, imagined to be uninhabit- 
ed. Some suspicions being awakened, in those who super- 
intended tlie burial of the dead, the house was entered, and 
the father and child discovered to be dead. The former 
was stretched upon his wretched pallet, while the daughter 
was found on the floor of the lower room, in a state that de- 
noted the sufferance, not only of disease, but of famine. 

This tale was false. Subsequent discoveries proved this 
to be a detestab'e artifice of Craig, who, stimulated by incu- 
rable habits, had invented these disasters, for the purpose of 
enhancing the opinion of his humanity, and of furthering his 
views on the fortune and daughter of Mr. Ridgeley. 

Its falsehood, however, I had as yet no means of ascer- 
taining. I received it as true, and at once dismissed all my 
claims upon futurity. All hopes of happiness, in this muta- 
ble and sublunary scene, was fled. Nothing remained, but 
to join my friend in a w’orld, where woes are at an end and 
virtue finds recompense. Surely, said I, there will some- 
time be a close to calamity and discord. To those whose 
lives have been blameless, but harassed by inquietudes, to 
which not their own,buttlie errors of others have given birth, 
a fortress will hereafter be assigned unassailable by change., 
impregnable to sorrow. 

O ! my ill-fated Constantia ! I will live to cherish thy 
remembrance, and to emulate thy virtue. I will endure 
the privation of thy friendship and the vicissitudes that shall 
befall me, and draw my consolation and courage, from the 
foresight of no distant close to this terrestrial scene, and of 
ultimate and everlasting union with thee. 

This consideration, though it kept me from confusion 
and despair, could not, but with the healing aid of time, ren- 
der me tranquil or strenuous. My strength was unequal to 
the struggle of my passions. The ship in which I engaged 
to embark, could not wait for my restoration to health, and I 
was left behind. 

Mary Ridgeley was artless and affectionate. She saw 
that her society was dearer to me than that of any other, and 
was therefore seldom willing to leave my chamber. Her 
presence, less on her own account, than by reason of her 
IS* 


210 


ORMOND. 


personal resemblance, and her affinity by birth to Constantia, 
was a powerful solace. 

I had nothing to detain me longer in America. I was 
anxious to change my present lonely state, for the commu- 
nion of those friends, in England, and the performance of 
those duties, which were left to me. I was informed that a 
British Packet, would shortly sail from New York. My frame 
was sunk into greater weakness, than I had felt at any for- 
mer period ; and I conceived, that to return to New York, by 
water, was more commodious than to perform the journey 
by land. 

This arrangement was likewse destined to be disappoint- 
ed. One morning I visited, according to my custom, Mary 
Ridgeley. I found her in a temper somewhat inclined to 
gaiety. She rallied me, with great archness, on the care 
with which I had concealed fi-om her a tender engagement, 
into which I had lately entered. 

I supposed myself to comprehend her allusion, and, there- 
fore, answered that accident rather than design, had made 
me silent on the subject of marriage. She had hitherto 
known me by no appellation, but Sophia Courtland. I had 
thought it needless to inform her, that I was indebted for my 
name to my husband, Courtland being his name. 

All that, said my friend, I know already, and so you sage- 
ly think that my knowledge goes no farther than that ^ We 
are not bound to love our husbands longer than their lives. 
There is no crime, I believe, in preferring the living to the 
dead, and most heartily do I congratulate you on your pre- 
sent choice. 

What mean you*? I confess your discourse surpasses 
my comprehension. 

At that moment the bell at the door rung a loud peal. 
Miss Ridgeley hastened do^vn at this signal, saying, with much 
significance 

I am a poor hand at solving a riddle. Here comes one who, 
if I mistake not, wiU find no difficulty in clearing up your 
doubts. 

Presently, she came up, and said, with a smile of still 
greater archness ; — Here is a young gentleman, a friend of 
mine, to w^hom I must have the pleasure of introducing you. 


ORMOND. 


211 

He has come for the special purpose of solving my riddle.— 
I attended her to the parlor without hesitation. 

She presented me, with great formality, to a youth, whose 
appearance did not greatly prepossess me in favor of his 
judgment. He approached me with an air, supercilious and 
ceremonious, but the moment he caught a glance at my 
face, he shrunk back, visibly confounded and embarrassed. 
A pause ensued, in which Miss Ridgeley had opportunity to 
detect the error into which she had been led, by the vanity 
of this young man. 

How now, Mr. Martynne, said my friend, in a tone of ridi- 
cule, is it possible you do not know the lady who is the 
queen of your affections, the tender and indulgent fair one, 
whose portrait you carry in your bosom ; and whose image 
you daily and nightly bedew with your tears and kisses 

Mr. Martynne’s confusion instead of being subdued by his 
struggle, only grew more conspicuous, and after a few in- 
coherent speeches and apologies, during which he carefully 
avoided encountering my eyes, he hastily departed. 

I applied to my friend, with great earnestness, for an ex- 
planation of this scene. It seems that, in tlie course of con- 
versation with him, on the preceding day, he had suffered 
a portrait which hung at his breast, to catch Miss Ridgeley’s 
eye. On her betraying a desire to inspect it more nearly, 
he readily produced it. My image had been too well copied 
by the artist, not to be instantly recognised. 

She concealed her knowledge of the original, and by 
questions, well adapted to the purpose, easily drew from 
liim confessions that this was the portrait of his mistress. 
He let fall sundry innuendoes and surmises, tending to im- 
press her with a notion of the rank, fortune and intellectual 
accomplishments of the nymph, and particularly of the doat- 
ing fondness and measureless confidence, with which she 
regarded him. 

Her imperfect knowledge of my situation, left her in some 
doubt as to the truth of these pretensions, and she was will- 
ing to ascertain the truth, by bringing about an interview. 
To guard against evasions and artifice in the lover, she care- 
fully concealed from him her knowledge of the original, and 
merely pretended that a friend of her’s, was far more beauti- 
ful than her whom this pictui-e represented. She added j 


21*2 


ORMOND. 


that she expected a visit from her friend the next morning, 
and was willing, by shewing her to Mr. Martynne, to convince 
him how much he was mistaken, in supposing the perfections 
of his mistress unrivalled. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Martynne, while he expressed his confidence, that the 
experiment would only confirm his triumph, readily as- 
sented to the proposal, and the interview above described 
took place accordingly, the next morning. Had he not 
been taken by surprise, it is likely the address of a man, 
who possessed no contemptible powers, would have extri- 
cated him from some of his embarrassment. 

That my portrait should be in the possession of one, 
whom I had never before seen, and whose character and 
manners entitled him to no respect, was a source of some 
surprise. This mode of multiplying faces is extremely 
prevalent in this age, and was eminently characteristic of 
those with whom I had associated in different parts of 
Europe. The nature of my thoughts had modified my 
features into an expression, which my friends were pleased 
to consider as a model for those who desired to personify 
the genius of suffering and resignation. 

Hence among those whose religion permitted their devo- 
tion to a picture of a female, the symbols of their chosen 
deity were added to features and shape that resembled 
mine. My own caprice, as well as that of others, always 
dictated a symbolical, and in every new instance, a dif- 
ferent accompaniment of this kind. Hence was offered 
the means of tracing the history of that picture which Mar- 
tynne possessed. 

It had been accurately examined by Miss Ridgeley, and 
her description of the frame in which it was placed, instantly 
informed me that it was the same which, at our parting, I 
left in the possession of Constantia. My friend and myself 
were desirous of employing the skill of a Saxon painter, by 
name Eckstein. Each of us were drawn by him, she with 
the cincture of Venus, and I with the crescent of Dian. This 


ORMOND. 


213 

symbol was still conspicuous on the brow of that image, 
which Miss Ridgeley had examined, and served to identify 
the original proprietor. 

Tliis circumstance tended to confirm my fears that Con- 
stantia was dead, since that she would part widi this picture 
during her life, was not to be believed. It was of little mo- 
ment to discover how it came into the hands of the present 
possessor. Those who carried her remains to the grave, 
had probably torn it from her neck and afterwards disposed 
of it for money. 

By whatever means, honest or illicit, it had been acquired 
by Martynne, it was proper that it fshould be restored to 
me. It was valuable to me, because it had been the pro- 
perty of one whom I loved, and it might prove highly inju- 
rious to my fame and my happiness, as the tool of this man’s 
vanity, and the attester of his falsehood. I, therefore, wrote 
him a letter, acquainting him witli my reasons for desiring 
the repossession of tliis picture, and offering a price for it, 
at least double its value, as a mere article of traffic. Mar- 
tynne accepted the terms. He transmitted the picture, and 
with it a note, apologizing for the artifice of which he had 
been guilty, and mentioning, in order to justify his accept- 
ance of the price which I had offered, that he had lately 
purchased it for an equal sum of a goldsmith in Philadel- 
phia. 

This information suggested a new reflection. Constantia 
had engaged to preserve, for the use of her friend, copious 
and accurate memorials of her life. Copies of these were, 
on suitable occasions, to be transmitted to me, during my 
residence abroad. These I had never received, but it was 
highly probable that her punctuality, in the performance of 
the first part of her engagement, had been equal to my own. 

What, I asked, had become of these precious memorials 
In the wreck of her property were these irretrievably in- 
gulfed 9 It was not probable that they had been wantonly 
destroyed. Tliey had fallen, perhaps, into hands careless 
or unconscious of their value, or still lay, unknown and ne- 
glected, at the bottom of some closet or chest. Their re- 
covery might be effected by vehement exertions, or by 
some miraculous accident. Suitable inquiries, carried on 
among those who were active in those scenes of calamity, 


ORMOND. 


214 

might afford some clue by which the fate of the Dudleys, 
and the disposition of their property, might come into fuller 
light. These inquiries could be made only in Philadelphia, 
and thither, for that purpose, I now resolved to repair. 
Tliere was still an interval of some weeks, before the de- 
parture of the packet in which I proposed to embark. 

Having returned to the capital, I devoted all my zeal to 
my darling project. My efforts, however, were without 
success. Those who administered charity and succor 
during that memorable season, and who survived, could re- 
move none of my doubts, nor answer any of my inquiries. 
Innumerable tales, equally disastrous with those which Miss 
Ridgeley had heard, were related ; but, for a considerable 
period, none of their circumstances were sufficiently accor- 
dant with the history of the Dudleys. 

It is worthy of remark, in how many ways, and by what 
complexity of motives, human curiosity is awakened and 
knowledge obtained. By its connexion with my darling 
purpose, every event in the history of this memorable pest, 
was earnestly sought and deeply pondered. The power- 
ful considerations which governed me, made me slight 
those punctilious impediments, which, in other circum- 
stances, would have debarred me from intercourse with the 
immediate actors and observers. I found none who were 
unwilling to expatiate on this topic, or to communicate the 
knowledge they possessed. Their details were copious in 
particulars, and vivid in minuteness. They exhibited the 
state of manners, the diversified effects of evil or heroic 
passions, and the endless forms which sickness and poverty 
assume in the obscure recesses of a commercial and popu- 
lous city. 

Some of these details are too precious to be lost. It is 
above all things necessary that we should be thoroughly ac- 
quainted with the condition of our fellow-beings. Justice 
and compassion are the fruit of knowledge. The misery 
that overspreads so large a part of mankind, exists chiefly 
because tliose who ai’e able to relieve it do not know that 
it exists. Forcibly to paint the evil, seldom fails to excite 
the virtue of the spectator, and seduce him into wishes, at 
least, if not into exertions of beneficence. 

The circumstances in which I was placed were, perhaps. 


ORMOND. 


215 

wholly singular. Hence the knowledge I obtained was 
more comprehensive and authentic than was possessed by 
any one, even of the immediate actors or sufferers. Tliis 
knowledge will not be useless to myself or to the world. 
The motives which dictated the present narrative, will hin- 
der me from relinquishing the pen, till my fund of observa- 
tion and experience be exhausted. Meanwhile, let me 
resume the thread of my tale. 

The period allowed me before my departure was nearly 
expired, and my purpose seemed to be as far from its ac- 
complishment as ever. One evening I visited a lady, who 
was the widow of a physician, whose disinterested exertions 
had cost him his life. She dwelt with pathetic earnestness 
on the particulars of her own distress, and listened with 
deep attention to the inquiries and doubts which I laid be- 
fore her. 

After a pause of consideration, she said, that an incident 
like that related by me, she had previously heard from one 
of her friends, whose name she mentioned. This person 
was one of those whose office consisted in searching out the 
sufferers, and affording them unsought and unsolicited re- 
lief. She was offering to introduce me to this person, when 
he entered the apartment. 

After the usual compliments, my friend led tlie conversa- 
tion as I wished. Between Mr. Thompson’s tale and that 
related to Miss Ridgeley, there was an obvious resemblance. 
The sufferers resided in an obscure alley. They had shut 
themselves up from all intercourse with their neighbors, and 
had died, neglected and unknown. Mr. Thompson was 
vested with the superintendence of this district, and had 
passed the house frequently without suspicion of its being 
tenanted. 

He was at length informed by one of those who conducted 
a hearse, that he had seen the window in the upper story of 
this house lifted, and a female shew herself. It was night, 
and the hearseman chanced to be passing the door. He 
immediately supposed that the person stood in need of his 
services, and stopped. 

Tliis procedure w'^as comprehended by the person at the 
window, who, leaning out, addressed him in a broken and 


ORMOND. 


216 

feeble voice. She asked him why he had not taken a dif- 
ferent route, and upbraided him for inhumanity in leading 
his noisy vehicle past her door. She wanted repose, but 
the ceaseless rumbling of his wheels would not allow her the 
sweet respite of a moment. 

This invective was singular, and uttered in a voice which 
united the utmost degree of earnestness, with a feebleness 
that rendered it almost inarticulate. The man was at a loss 
for a suitable answer. His pause only increased the impa- 
tience of the person at the window, who called upon him, in 
a still more anxious tone, to proceed, and entreated him to 
avoid this alley for the future. 

He answered that he must come whenever the occasion 
called him. That three persons now lay dead in this alley, 
and that he must be expeditious in their removal, but that 
he would return as seldom and make as little noise as possible. 

He was interrupted by new exclamations and upbraid ings. 
These terminated in a burst of tears, and assertions, that 
God and man w^ere her enemies. That they w^ere deter- 
mined to destroy her, but she trusted that the time would 
come when their own experience w^ould avenge her wrongs, 
and teach them some compassion for the misery of others. 
Saying this, she shut the window with violence, and retired 
from it sobbing with a vehemence, that could be distinctly 
overheard by him in the street. 

He paused for some time, listening when this passion 
should cease. The habitation was slight, and he imagined 
that he heard her traversing the floor. Wliile he staid, she 
continued to vent her anguish in exclamations and sighs, and 
passionate weeping. It did not appear that any other per- 
son was within. 

Mr. Thompson being next day informed of these incidents, 
endeavored to enter the house, but his signals, though loud 
and frequently repeated, being unnoticed, he was obliged to 
gain admission by violence. An old man, and a female, 
lovely in the midst of emaciation and decay, were discovered 
without signs of life. The death of the latter appeared to 
have been very recent. 

In examining the house, no traces of other inhabitants 
w^ere to be found. Nothing, serviceable as food, was dis- 
covered, but the remnants of mouldy bread scattered on a 


ORMOND. 


217 


table. No information could be gathered from neighbors 
respecting the condition and name of these unfortunate 
people. Tliey had taken possession of tliis house, during 
the rage of this malady, and refrained from all communica- 
tion with their neighbors. 

There was too much resemblance between this and the 
story formerly heard, not to produce the belief that tliey 
related to the same persons. All that remained was to 
obtain directions to the proprietor of this dwelling, and exact 
from him all that he knew respecting his tenants. 

I found in him a man of worth and affability. He readily 
related, that a man applied to him for the use of this house, 
and that the application was received. At the beginning of 
the pestilence, a numerous family inhabited this tenement, 
but had died in rapid succession. This new applicant was 
the first to apprize him of this circumstance, and appeared 
extremely anxious to enter on immediate possession. 

It was intimated to him that danger would arise from the 
pestilential condition of the house. Unless cleansed and 
purified, disease would be unavoidably contracted. The 
inconvenience and hazard, this applicant w^as willing to en- 
counter, and, at length, hinted that no alternative was allowed 
him, by his present landlord, but to lie in the street or to 
procure some other abode. 

What was the external appearance of this person 

He was infirm, past the middle age, of melancholy aspect, 
and indigent garb. A year had since elapsed, and more 
characteristic particulars had not been remarked, or were 
forgotten. The name had been mentioned, but in the midst 
of more recent and momentous transactions, had vanished 
from remembrance. Dudley, or Dolby, or Hadley, seemed 
to approach more nearly than any odier sounds. 

Permission to inspect the house was readily granted. It 
had remained, since that period, unoccupied. The furniture 
and goods were scanty and wretched, and he did not care 
to endanger his safety, by meddling with them. He be- 
lieved that they had not been removed or touched. 

I was insensible of any hazard which attended my visit, 
and, with the guidance of a servant, who felt as little appre- 
hension as myself, Iiastened to the spot. I found nolliing but 
19 


•218 


ORMOND. 


tables and chairs. Clotliing was nowhere to be seen. An 
earthen pot, without handle, and broken, stood upon the 
kitchen health. No otlier implement or vessel for the pre- 
paration of food, appeared. 

These forlorn appearances were accounted for by the 
servant, by supposing the house to have been long since 
rifled of every tiling worth the trouble of removal, by the 
villains who occupied tlie neighboring houses ; this alley, it 
seems, being noted for the profligacy of its inhabitants. 

When I reflected that a wretched hovel like this, had 
been, probably, the last retreat of the Dudleys, when I 
painted their sufferings, of which the numberless tales of 
distress, of which I had lately been an auditor, enabled me 
to form an adequate conception, I felt as if to lie down and 
expire on the very spot where Constantia had fallen, was 
the only sacrifice to friendship, w^hich time had left to me. 

From this house I wandered to the field, where the dead 
had been promiscuously and by hundreds, interred. I count- 
ed the long series of graves, which were closely ranged, 
and, being recently levelled, exliibited the appeai'ance of a 
harrowed field. Methought I could have given thousands, 
to know in what spot the body of my friend lay, that I 
might moisten the sacred earth with my tears. Boai’ds has- 
tily nailed together, formed the best receptacle, which the 
exigencies of the time could grant to the dead. Many 
corpses were tlirowm into a single excavation, and all dis- 
tinctions founded on merit and rank, were obliterated. 
The father and child had been placed in the same cart, 
and thrown into the same hole. 

Despairing, by any longer stay in the city, to effect my 
purpose, and the period of my embarkation being near, I 
prepared to resume my journey. I should have set out the 
next day, but a family, with whom I had made acquaintance, 
expecting to proceed to New York within a week, I con- 
sented to be their companion, and, for that end, to de- 
lay my departure. 

Meanwhile, I shut myself up in my apartment, and pm- 
sued avocations, that were adapted to the melancholy tenor 
of my thoughts. The day, preceding that appointed for 
ray journey, arrived. It rvas necessary to complete my ar- 


ORMOND. 


219 


rangements with the family, with whom I was to travel, and 
to settle with the lady, whose apartments I occupied. 

On how slender threads does our destiny hang ! Had not 
a momentary impulse tempted me to sing my favorite ditty 
to the harpsichord, to beguile the short interval, during which 
my hostess was conversing with her visiter in the next 
apartment, I should have speeded to New York, have em- 
barked for Europe, and been eternally severed from my 
friend, whom I believed to have died in phrenzy and beg- 
gary, but who was alive and affluent, and who sought me 
with a diligence, scarcely inferior to my own. We imagined 
ourselves severed from each other, by death or by impassa- 
ble seas, but, at the moment when our hopes had sunk to 
the lowest ebb, a mysterious destiny conducted our footsteps 
to the same spot. ^ 

I heard a murmuring exclamation ; I heard my hostess 
call, in a voice of terror, for help ; I rushed into the room ; 
I saw one stretched on the floor, in the attitude of death ; 
I sprung forward and fixed my eyes upon her countenance ; 
I clasped my hands and articulated — Constantia ! — 

Slie speedily recovered from her swoon. Her eyes 
opened, she moved, she spoke. Still methought it was" an 
illusion of the senses, that created the phantom. I could 
not bear to withdraw my eyes from her countenance. If 
they wandered for a moment, I fell into doubt and perplexi- 
ty, and again fixed them upon her, to assure myself of her 
existence. 

The succeeding three days were spent in a state of diz- 
ziness and intoxication. The ordinary functions of nature 
were disturbed. The appetite for sleep and for food were 
confounded and lost, amidst the impetuosities of a master pas- 
sion. To look and to talk to each other, afforded enchanting 
occupation for every moment. I would not part from her 
side, but eat and slept, walked, and mused, and read, with 
my arm locked in her’s, and with her breath fanning my 
cheek. 

I have indeed much to learn. Sophia Courtland has never 
been wise. Her affections disdain the cold dictates of discre- 
tion, and spurn at every limit, that contending duties and 
mixed obligations prescribe. 

And yet, O ! precious inebriation of the heart ! O ! pre- 


220 


ORMOND. 


eminent love! What pleasure of reason or of sense, can 

stand in competition with tliose attendant upon thee 

Whether thou hiest to the fanes of a benevolent deity, or 
layest all thy homage at the feet of one, who most visibly 
resembles the perfections of our Maker, surely thy sanction 
is divine ; thy boon is happiness ! — 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The tumults of curiosity and pleasure did not speedily 
subside. The story of each other’s wanderings, was told 
with endless amplification and minuteness. Henceforth, the 
stream of our existence was to mix ; we were to act and to 
think in common ; casual witnesses and wTitten testimony 
should become superfluous. Eyes and ears were to be 
eternally employed upon the conduct of each otlier ; death 
when it should come, was not to be deplored, because it was 
an unavoidable and brief privation to her that should survive. 
Being, under any modification, is dear, but that state to 
which deatli is a passage, is all-desirable to virtue and all- 
compensating to grief. 

Meanwhile, precedent events were made the themes of 
endless conversation. Every incident and passion, in the 
course of four years, was revived and exhibited. Tlie name 
of Ormond, was, of course, frequently repeated by my 
friend. His features and deportment were described. Her 
meditations and resolutions, with regard to him, fully dis- 
closed. My counsel was asked, in what manner it became 
her to act. 

I could not but harbor aversion to a scheme, which should 
tend to sever me from Constantia, or to give me a competi- 
tor in her affections. Besides tliis, tlie properties of Ormond 
were of too mysterious a nature, to make him worthy of ac- 
ceptance. Little more was known, concerning him, than 
what he himself had disclosed to the Dudleys, but this know- 
ledge would suffice to invalidate his claims. 

He had dwelt, in his conversations with Constantia, spar- 
ingly on his own concerns. Yet he did not hide from her, 
that he had been left in early youth, to his own guidance ; 


ORMOND. 


221 

that he had embraced, when almost a child, the trade of 
arms ; that he had found service and promotion in the ar- 
mies of Potemkin and Romanzow ; that he had executed 
secret and diplomatic functions, at Constantinople and Ber- 
lin ; that, in the latter city, he had met with schemers and 
reasoners, who aimed at the new modelling of the world, 
and the subversion of all that has hitherto been conceived 
elementary and fundamental, in the constitution of man and 
of government ; that some of those reformers had secretly 
united, to break down tlie military and monarchical fabric of 
German policy ; that others, more wisely, had devoted tlieir 
secret efforts, not to overturn, but to build ; that, for this end, 
they embraced an exploring and colonizing project ; that he 
had allied himself to these, and, for the promotion of their 
projects, had spent six years of his life, in journeys by sea 
and land, in tracts unfrequented, till then, by any European. 

What were the moral or political maxims, which this ad- 
venturous and visionary sect had adopted, and what was the 
seat of tlieir new-born empire, whether on the shore of Aus- 
tral continent, or in the heart of desert America, he carefully 
concealed. These were exhibited or hidden, or shifted, ac- 
cording to his purpose. Not to reveal too much, and not to 
tire curiosity or overtask belief, was his daily labor. He 
talked of alliance with the family whose name he bore, and 
who had lost their honors and estates, by the Hanoverian 
succession to the crown of England. 

I had seen too much of innovation and imposture, in 
France and Italy, not to regard a man like this, with aver- 
.sion and fear. The mind of my friend was wavering and 
unsuspicious. She had lived at a distance from scenes, 
where principles are hourly put to the test of experiment ; 
where all extremes of fortitude and pusillanimity are accus- 
tomed to meet ; where recluse virtue and speculative hero- 
ism give place as if by magic, to the last excesses of debau- 
chery and wickedness ; where pillage and murder are en- 
grafted, on systems of all-embracing and self-oblivious be- 
nevolence ; and the good of mankind is professed to be 
pursued, with bonds of association and covenants of secrecy. 
Hence my friend had decided witliout the sanction of expe- 
rience, had allowed herself to wander into untried paths. 

19 ^* 


222 


ORMOND; 


and had hearkened to positions, pregnant with destruction 
and ignominy. 

It was not difficult to exhibit*, in their true light, the enor- 
mous errors of this man, and the danger of prolonging their 
intercourse. Her assent to accompany me to England, was 
readily obtained. Too much despatch could not be used, 
but the disposal of her property must first take place. This 
was necessarily productive of some delay. 

I had been made, contrary to inclination, expert in the 
management of all affairs, relative to property. My moth- 
er’s lunacy, subsequent disease and death, had imposed up- 
on me obligations and cares, little suitable to my sex and 
age. They could not be eluded or transferred to others, 
and, by degrees, experience enlarged my knowledge and 
familiarized my tasks. 

It was agreed that I should visit and inspect my friend’s 
estate, in Jersey, while she remained in her present abode, 
to put an end to the views and expectations of Ormond, 
and to make preparation for her voyage. We were recon- 
ciled to a temporary separation, by the necessity that pre-» 
scribed it. 

During our residence together, the mind of Constantia 
was kept in perpetual ferment. The second day after my 
departure, the turbulence of her feelings began to sub- 
side, and she found herself at leisure to pursue those mea- 
sures which her present situation prescribed. 

The time prefixed by Ormond for the termination of his 
absence, had nearly arrived. Her resolutions respecting 
this man, lately formed, now occurred to her. Her heart 
drooped as she revolved the necessity of disuniting their 
fates ; but that this disunion was proper, could not admit of 
doubt. How information of her present views might be 
most satisfactorily imparted to him, was a question not in- 
stantly decided. She reflected on the impetuosity of his 
chai'acter, and conceived that her intentions might be most 
conveniently unfolded in a letter. This letter she immedi- 
ately sat down to write. Just tlien the door opened, and 
Ormond entered the apartment. 

She was somewhat, and for a moment, startled by this 
abrupt and imlooked for entrance. Yet she greeted him 
mih pleasure. Her greeting was received with coldness. 


ORMOND. 


22 ^ 


A second glance at his countenance informed her that his 
mind was somewhat discomposed. 

Folding his hands on his breast, he stalked to tlie win- 
dow, and looked up at the moon. Presently he witlidrew 
his gaze from this object, and fixed them upon Constantia, 
He spoke, but his words were produced by a kind of efibrt. 

Fit emblem, he exclaimed, of human versatility ! One 
impediment is gone. I hoped it was the only one, but no ; 
the removal of that merely made room for another. Let 
this be removed. Well ; fate will interplace a third. All 
our toils will thus be frustrated, and the ruin will finally re- 
dound upon our heads. — There he stopped. 

This strain could not be interpreted by Constantia. She 
smiled, and without noticing his incoherences, proceeded to 
inquire into his adventures during tlieir separation. He lis- 
tened to her, but his eyes, fixed upon her’s, and his solem- 
nity of aspect were immoveable. When she paused, he 
seated himself close to her, and grasped her hand with a 
vehemence that almost pained her, said ; 

Look at me ; steadfastly. Can you read my thoughts 
Can your disceniment reach the bounds of my knowledge 
and the bottom of my purposes Catch you not a view of 
the monsters that are starting into birth here (and he put his 
left hand to his forehead.) But you cannot. Should I 
paint them to you verbally, you would call me jester or de- 
ceiver. What pity that you have not instruments for pierc- 
ing into tlioughts ! 

I presume, said Constantia, affecting cheerfulness, which 
she did not feel, such instruments would be useless to me. 
You never scruple to say what you think. Your designs 
are no sooner conceived than they are expressed. All you 
know, all you wish, and all you purpose, are known to others 
as soon as to yourself. No scruples of decorum ; no fore- 
sight of consequences, are obstacles in your way. 

True, replied he, all obstacles are trampled under foot, 
but one. 

What is the insuperable one 9 

Incredulity in liim that hears. I must not say what will 
not be credited. I must not relate feats and avow schemes, 
when my hearer will say, those feats were never perform- 
ed ; these schemes are not your’s. I care not if the truth 


224 


ORMOND. 


of my tenets and the practicability of my purposes, be denied. 
Still 1 will openly maintain them ; but when my assertions 
will, themselves, be disbelieved ; when it is denied, that I 
adopt the creed and project the plans, which I affirm to be 
adopted and projected by me, it is needless to affirm. 

Tomorrow, I mean to ascertain the height of the lunar 
mountains, by travelling to the top of them. Tlien I will 
station myself in the tract of the last comet, and wait till its 
circumvolution suffers me to leap upon it ; then by walk- 
ing on its surface, I will ascertain whether it be hot enough 
to burn my soles. Do you believe ffiat this can be done 9 
No. 

Do you believe, in consequence of my assertion, that I 
design to do this, and that, in my apprehension, it is easy to 
be done 9 

Not ; unless I previously believe you to be lunatic. 

Then why should I assert my purposes 9 Why speak, 
when the hearer will infer nothing from my speech’ but that 
I am either lunatic or liar 9 

In that predicament, silence is best. 

In that predicament, I now stand. I am not going to 
unfold myself. Just now, I pitied thee for want of eyes. 
’Twas a foolish compassion. Thou art happy, because thou 
seest not an inch before thee or behind. — Here he was for 
a moment buried in thought ; then breaking from his reverie, 
he said : So ; your father is dead 9 

True, said Constantia, endeavoring to suppress her ris- 
ing emotions, he is no more. It is so recent an event, that 
I imagined you a stranger to it. 

False imagination ! Thinkest thou, I would refrain from 
kno^ving what so nearly concerns us both 9 Perhaps your 
opinion of my ignorance extends beyond this. Perhaps, I 
know not your fruitless search for a picture. Perhaps, I 
neither followed you, nor led you to a being called Sophia 
Courtland. I was not present at the meeting. I am un- 
apprized of the effects of your romantic passion for each 
other. I did not witness the rapturous effusions and inex- 
orable counsels of the new’ comer. I know not the con- 
tents of the letter which you are prepai'ing to write. — 

As he spoke this, the accents of Ormond gradually aug- 
mented in vehemence. His countenance bespoke a deepen- 


ORMOND. 


225 

ing inquietude and growing passion. He stopped at the 
mention of the letter, because his voice was overpowered by 
emotion. This pause afforded room for the astonishment 
of Constantia. Her interviews and conversations with me, 
took place at seasons of general repose, when all doors 
were fast and avenues shut, in the midst of silence, and in 
the bosom of retirement. The theme of our discourse was, 
commonly, too sacred for any ears but our own ; disclosures 
were of too intimate and delicate a nature, for any but a fe- 
male audience ; they were too injurious to the fame and 
peace of Ormond, for him to be admitted to partake of 
them ; yet his words implied a full acquaintance with re- 
cent events, and with purposes and deliberations, shrouded, 
as we imagined, in impenetrable secrecy. 

As soon as Constantia recovered from the confusion of these 
thoughts, she eagerly questioned him ; what do you know ^ 
How do you know what has happened, or what is intended 

Poor Constantia ! he exclaimed, in a tone bitter and sar- 
castic. How hopeless is thy ignorance ! To enlighten thee 
is past my power. What do I know Every thing. Not 
a tittle has escaped me. Thy letter is superfluous ; I know 
its contents before they are written. I was to be told that 
a soldier and a traveller, a man who refused his faith to 
dreams, and his homage to shadows, merited only scorn 
and forgetfulness. That thy affections and person were due 
to another ; that intercourse between us was henceforth to 
cease ; that preparation was making for a voyage to Britain, 
and that Ormond was to walk to his grave alone ! 

In spite of harsh tones and inflexible features, these words 
were accompanied with somewhat that betrayed a mind full of 
discord and agony. Constantia’s astonishment was mingled 
with dejection. The discovery of a passion, deeper and less 
curable than she suspected ; the perception of embarrass- 
ments and difficulties in the path, which she had chosen, that 
had not previously occurred to her, tlirew her mind into anx- 
ious suspense. 

The measures she had previously concerted, were still ap- 
proved. To part from Ormond was enjoined by every dic- 
tate of discretion and duty. An explanation of her motives 
and views, could not take place more seasonably than at 
present. Every consideration of justice to herself and hu- 


ORMOND. 


226 

manity to Ormond, made it desirable that this interview 
should be the last. By inexplicable means, he had gained a 
knowledge of her intentions. It was expedient, tlierefore, 
to state them with clearness and force. In what words this 
was to be done, was the subject of momentary deliberation. 

Her thoughts were discerned, and her speech anticipated 
by - her companion. — Why droopest thou, and why thus 
silent, Constantia The secret of thy fate will never be 
detected. Till thy destiny be finished, it will not be the topic 
of a single fear. But not for thyself, but me, art thou con- 
cerned. Thou dreadest, yet determinest to confirm my 
predictions of thy voyage to Europe, and thy severance from 
me. 

Dismiss thy inquietudes on that score. What misery thy 
scorn and thy rejection are able to inflict, is inflicted already. 
Thy decision was known to me as soon as it was formed. 
Thy motives were known. Not an argument or plea of thy 
counsellor, not a syllable of her invective, not a sound of her 
persuasive rhetoric escaped my hearing. I know thy decree 
to be immutable. As my doubts, so my wishes have taken 
their flight. Perhaps, in the depth of thy ignorance, it wae 
supposed, that 1 should struggle to reverse thy purpose, by 
menaces or supplications. That I should boast of the cruelty 
with whicii I should avenge an imaginary wrong upon myself. 
No. All is very well ; go. Not a wlusper of objection or 
reluctance, shalt thou hear from me. 

If I could think, said Constantia, with tremulous hesitation, 
that you part from me witliout anger ; that you see tlie recti- 
tude of my proceeding 

Anger ! Rectitude. I prithee peace. I know thou art 
going. I know that all objection to thy purpose would be 
vain. Thinkest thou tliat thy stay, undictated by love, the 
mere fruit of compassion, would afford me pleasure or crown 
my wishes % No. I am not so dastardly a wi'etch. There 
was something in thy power to bestow, but thy will accords 
not with thy power. I merit not the boon, and thou refusest 
it. I am content. 

Here Ormond fixed more significant eyes upon her. Poor 
Constantia ! he continued. Shall I waim thee of the danger 
that awaits thee 9 For what end ! To elude it, is impossi- 


ORMOND. 


227 


ble. It will come, and thou, perhaps, wilt be unhappy. 
Foresight, that enables not to shun, only precreates the evil. 

Come, it will. Though future, it knows not the empire 
of contingency. An inexorable and immutable decree en- 
joins it. Perhaps, it is thy nature to meet with calmness 
what cannot be shunned. Perhaps, when it is passed, tliy 
reason will perceive its irrevocable nature, and restore tliee 
to peace. Such is the conduct of the wise, but such, I fear, 
the education of Constantia Dudley, will debar her from pur- 
suing. 

Feign would I regard it as the test of thy wisdom. I look 
upon thy past life. All the forms of genuine adversity have 
beset tliy youth. Poverty, disease, servile labor, a criminal 
and hapless parent, have been evils which thou hast not un- 
gracefully sustained. An absent friend and murdered father, 
were added to thy list of woes, and here thy courage was 
deficient. Thy soul was proof against substantial misery, 
but sunk into helpless cowardice, at tlie sight of phantoms. 

One more disaster remains. To call it by its true name 
would be useless or pernicious. Useless, because thou 
would St pronounce its occurrence impossible ; pernicious, 
because, if its possibility were granted, the omen would dis- 
tract thee with fear. How shall 1 describe it Is it loss of 
fame No. Tlie deed will be unwitnessed by a human 
creature. Thy reputation will be spotless, for nothing will 
be done by thee, unsuitable to the tenor of thy past life^ 
Calumny will not be heard to whisper. All that know thee, 
will be lavish of their eulogies as ever. Their eulogies will 
be as justly merited. Of this merit thou wilt entertain as 
just and as adequate conceptions as now. 

It is no repetition of the evils tliou hast already endured ; 
it is neither drudgery nor sickness, nor privation of friends. 
Strange perverseness of human reason ! It is an evil ; it will 
be tiiought upon with agony ; it will close up all the sources 
of pleasurable recollection ; it will exterminate hope ; it will 
endear oblivion, and push diee into an untimely grave. Yet 
to grasp it is impossible. The moment we inspect it neai’ly, 
it vanishes. Thy claims to human approbation and divine 
applause, will be undiminished and unaltered by it. The 
testimony of approving conscience, will have lost none of its 
explicitness and energy". Yet thou wilt feed upon sighs ; 


ORMOND. 


228 

thy tears will flow without remission ; thou wilt grow ena- 
mored of death, and perhaps will anticipate the stroke of 
disease. 

Yet, perhaps, my prediction is groundless as my know- 
ledge. Perhaps, diy discernment will avail, to make thee 
wise and happy. Perhaps, thou wilt perceive thy privilege 
of sympathetic and intellectual activity, to be untouched. 
Heaven grant the non-fulfilment of my prophecy, thy disen- 
thralment from error, and the perpetuation of thy happiness. 

Saying this, Ormond withdrew. His words were always 
accompanied with gestures and looks, and tones, that fasten- 
ed the attention of tlie hearer, but the terms of his present 
discourse, afforded, independently of gesticulation and ut- 
terance, sufficient motives to attention and remembrance. 
He was gone, but his image was contemplated by Constan- 
tia ; his w'ords still rung in her ears. 

The letter she designed to compose, was rendered, by 
this interview, unnecessary. Meanings, of which she and 
her friend alone were conscious, were discovered by Or- 
mond, through some other medium than words ; yet that 
was impossible. A being, unendowed with preternatural 
attributes, could gain the information which tliis man pos- 
sessed, only by the exertion of his senses. 

All human precautions had been used, to baffle the at- 
tempts of any secret witness. She recalled to mind the 
circumstances, in which convefsations witli her friend had 
taken place. All had been retirement, secrecy and silence. 
The hours usually dedicated to sleep, had been devoted to 
tliis better purpose. Much had been said, in a voice, low 
and scarcely louder than a whisper. To have overheard it 
at tlie distance of a few feet, was apparently impossible. 

Tlieir conversations had not been recorded by her. It 
could not be believed, that this had been done by Sophia 
Courtland. Had Ormond and her friend met, during the 
interval that had elapsed, between her separation from tlie 
latter, and her meeting wfith the former 9 Human events 
are conjoined by links, imperceptible to keenest eyes. Of 
Ormond’s means of information, she was wholly unapprized. 
Perhaps, accident would, sometime, unfold them. One 
thing was incontestable. That her schemes and her reasons 
for adoptmg them, were known to him. 


ORMOND. 


22d 


What unforeseen effects had that knowledge produced ! 
In what ambiguous terms had he couched his prognostics, 
of some mighty evil that awaited her ! He had given a ter- 
rible, but contradictory description, of her destiny. An 
event was to happen, akin to no calamity which she had 
already endured, disconnected with all which the imagination 
of man is accustomed to deprecate, capable of urging her 
to suicide, and yet of a kind, which left it undecided, whe- 
ther she would regard it witli indifference. 

What reliance shoidd she place upon prophetic incohe- 
rences, thus wild*? What precautions should she take, 
against a danger thus inscrutable and imminent 9 


CHAPTER XXVn. 

These incidents and reflections were speedily transmitted 
to me. I had always believed tlie character and machina- 
tions of Ormond, to be w^orthy of caution and fear. His 
means of information I did not pretend, and tliought it use- 
less to investigate. We cannot hide our actions and thoughts, 
from one of powerful sagacity, whom the detection suffi- 
ciently interests, to make him use all the methods of detec- 
tion in his power. The study of concealment is, in all 
cases, fruitless or hurtful. All that duty enjoins, is to design 
and to execute nothing, which may not be approved by a 
divine and omniscient observer. Human scrutiny is nei- 
tlier to be soKcited, nor shunned. Human approbation or 
censure, can never be exempt from injustice, because our 
limited perceptions debar us from a tliorough knowledge of 
any actions and motives but our own. 

On reviewing what had passed, between Constantia and 
me, I recollected nothing incompatible with purity and rec- 
titude. That Ormond was apprized of all that had passed, 
I by no means inferred from the tenor of his conversation 
with Constantia, nor, if this had been incontestably proved, 
should I have experienced any trepidation or anxiety on 
that account. 

His obscure and indirect menaces of evil, were of more 
20 


ORMOND. 


^30 

importance. His discourse on this topic, seemed suscepti- 
ble only of two constructions. Either he intended some 
fatal mischief, and was willing to torment her by fears, while 
he concealed from her the nature of her danger, that he 
might hinder her from guarding her safety, by suitable pre- 
cautions ; or, being hopeless of rendering her propitious to 
his wishes, his malice was satisfied with leaving her a legacy 
of apprehension and doubt. 

Constantia’s unacquaintance with the doctrines of that 
school, in which Ormond w^as probably instructed, led her 
to regard the conduct of tliis man, with more curiosity and 
wonder, than fear. She saw nothing but a disposition to 
sport with her ignorance and bewilder her with doubts. 

I do not believe myself destitute of courage. Rightly 
to estimate the danger and encounter it with firmness, are 
worthy of a rational being; but to place our security in 
thoughtlessness and blindness, is only less ignoble than cow- 
ardice. I could not forget the proofs of \dolence, which 
accompanied the death of Mr. Dudley. I could not over- 
look, in the recent conversation with Constantia, Ormond’s 
allusion to her murdered father. It was possible that the 
nature of this death had been accidentally imparted to him ; 
but it was likewise possible, that his was the knowledge of 
one who performed the act. 

The enormity of this deed, appeared by no means incon- 
gruous with the sentiments of Ormond. Human life is mo- 
mentous or trivial in our eyes, according to the course which 
our habits and opinions have taken. Passion greedily ac- 
cepts, and habit readily offers, the sacrifice of another’s life, 
and reason obeys the impulse of education and desire. 

A youth of eighteen, a volunteer in a Russian army, en- 
camped in Bessarabia, made prey of a Tartar girl, found in 
the field of a recent battle. Conducting her to his quarters, 
he met a friend, who, on some pretence, claimed the victim. 
From angry words they betook themselves to swords. A 
combat ensued, in which tlie first claimant ran his antagonist 
through the body. He then bore his prize unmolested away, 
and having exercised brutality of one kind, upon the helpless 
victim, stabbed her to the heart, as an offering to the manes 
of Sarsefield, the friend whom he had slain. Next mom ing, 
willing more signally to expiate his guilt, he rushed alone 


ORMOND. 


231 


upon a troop of Turkish foragers, and brought away five 
heads, suspended, by their gory locks, to liis horse’s mane. 
Tliese he cast upon the grave of Sarsefield, and conceived 
himself fully to have expiated yesterday’s ofience. Li reward 
for his prowess, the General gave him a commission in the 
Cossack troops. This youth was Ormond ; and such is a 
specimen of his exploits, during a military career of eight 
years, in a warfare the most savage and implacable, and, at 
the same time, the most iniquitous and wanton wliich history 
records. 

With passions and habits like these, the life of another was 
a trifling sacrifice to vengeance or impatience. How Mr. 
Dudley had excited the resentment of Ormond, by what 
means the assassin had accomplished his intention, without 
awekening alarm or incurring suspicion, it was not for me to 
discover. The inextricability of human events, the imper- 
viousness of cunning, and the obduracy of malice, I had 
frequent occasions to remark. 

I did not labor to vanquish the security of my friqnd. As 
to precautions they were useless. There was no fortress, 
guarded by barriers of stone and iron, and watched by sen- 
tinels that never slept, to which she might retire from his strat- 
agems. If there were such a retreat, it would scarcely avail 
her against a foe, circumspect and subtle as Ormond. 

I pondered on the condition of my friend. I reviewed 
the incidents of her life. I compared her lot with that of 
others. 1 could not but discover a sort of incurable malignity 
in her fate. I felt as if it were denied to her to enjoy a long 
life or permanent tranquillity. I asked myself, what she had 
done, entitling her to this incessant persecution ^ Impatience 
and murmuring took place of sorrow and fear in my heart. 
When I reflected, that all human agency was merely sub- 
servient to a divine purpose, I fell into fits of accusation and 
impiety. 

This injustice was transient, and soberer views convinced 
me that every scheme, comprising the whole, must be 
productive of partial and temporary evil. The sufferings of 
Constantia were limited to a moment ; they were the un- 
avoidable appendages of terrestrial existence ; they formed 
the only avenue to wisdom, and the only claim to uninterrupt- 
ed fruition, and eternal repose in an after scene. 


232 


ORMOND. 


The course of my reflections, and the issue to which they 
led, were unforeseen by myself. Fondly as I doated upon 
this woman, methought I could resign her to the grave 
without a murmur or a tear. While my tlioughts were 
calmed by resignation, and my fancy occupied with nothing 
but the briefness of that space, and evanescence of that 
time which severs the living from the dead, I contemplated, 
abnost with complacency, a violent or untimely close to her 
existence. 

This loftiness of mind could not always be accompbshed 
or constantly maintained. One efiect of my fears, was to 
hasten my departure to Europe. There existed no imped- 
iment but tlie want of a suitable conveyance. In the first 
packet that should leave America, it was determined to 
secure a passage. Mr. Melbourne consented to take chai’ge 
of Constantia’s property, and, after the sale of it, to transmit 
to her the money that should thence arise. 

Meanwhile, I w’as anxious that Constantia should leave 
her present abode and join me in New York. She willingly 
adopted tliis arrangement, but conceived it necessary to 
spend a few days at her house in Jersey. She could reach 
the latter place without much deviation from the straight 
road, and she was desirous of resurveying a spot where 
many of her infantile days had been spent. 

This house and domain I have already mentioned to have 
once belonged to Mr. Dudley. It w'as selected with the 
judgment and adorned witli the taste of a disciple of the 
schools of Florence and Vincenza. In his view, cultivation 
was subservient to the picturesque, and a mansion was erect- 
ed, eminent for notliing but chastity of ornaments, and 
simplicity of structure. The massive parts were of stone ; 
tile outer surfaces were smootli, snow white, and diversified 
by apertures and cornices, in w^hich a cement uncommonly 
tenacious was WTOUght into proportions the most correct, and 
forms the most graceful. The floors, walls and ceilings, 
consisted of a still more exquisitely tempered substance, 
and were painted by Mr. Dudley’s own hand. All appen- 
dages of tliis building, as seats, tables and cabinets, were 
modelled by the owmer’s particular direction, and in a. man- 
ner scrupulously classical. 


ORMOND. 


233 

He had scarcely entered on the enjoyment of this splen- 
did possession, when it was ravished away. No privation 
was endured with more impatience than this ; but, happily, 
it was purchased by one who left Mr. Dudley’s arrange- 
ments unmolested, and who shortly after conveyed it entire 
to Ormond. By him it was finally appropriated to the use 
of Helena Cleves, and now, by a singular contexture of 
events, it had reverted to those hands, in which the deatli of 
the original proprietor, if no other change had been made in 
his condition, would have left it. The farm still remained 
in the tenure of a German emigrant, who held it partly on 
condition of preserving tlie garden and mansion in safety and 
in perfect order. 

This retreat was now revisited by Constantia, after an 
interval of four years. Autumn had made some progress, 
but the aspect of nature was, so to speak, more significant 
than at any other season. She was agreeably accommo- 
dated under the tenant’s roof, and found a nameless pleasure 
in traversing spaces, in which every object prompted an 
endless train of recollections. 

Her sensations were not foreseen. They led to a state 
of mind, inconsistent, in some degree, with the projects 
adopted in obedience to the suggestions of a friend. Every 
thing in this scene had been created and modelled by the 
genius of her father. It was a kind of fane, sanctified by his 
imaginary presence. 

To consign the fruits of his industry and invention to 
foreign and unsparing hands, seemed a kind of sacrilege, for 
which she almost feared that the dead would rise to upbraid 
her. Those images which bind us to our natal soil, to the 
abode of our innocent and careless youth, wei e recalled to 
her fancy by the scenes which she now beheld. These 
were enforced by considerations of the dangers which at- 
tended her voyage, from storms and from enemies, and 
from the tendency to revolution and war, which seemed to 
actuate all the nations of Europe. Her native countiy was 
by no means exempt from similar tendencies, but these 
evils were less imminent, and its manners and government, 
in their present modifications, were unspeakably more favora- 
ble to the dignity and improvement of the human race, than 
those which prevailed in any part of the ancient world. 

20 * 


ORMOND. 


2U 

My solicitations and my obligation to repair to England, 
overweighed her objections, but her new reflections led her 
to form new determinations with regard to this part of her 
property. She concluded to retain possession, and hoped 
that some future event would allow her to return to this 
favorite spot, without forfeiture of my society. An abode 
of some years in Europe would more eminently qualify her 
for the enjoyment of retirement and safety in her native 
country. The time that should elapse before her embarka- 
tion, she was desirous of passing among the shades of this 
romantic reti’eat. 

I was, by no means, reconciled to this proceeding. I 
loved my friend too well to endure any needless separation 
without repining. In addition to this, the image of Ormond 
haunted my tlioughts, and gave birth to incessant but inde- 
finable fears. I believed that her safety would very little 
depend upon the nature of her abode, or the number or 
watchfulness of her companions. My nearness to her per- 
son would frustrate no stratagem, nor promote any other end 
than my own entanglement in the same fold. Still, that I 
was not apprized, each hour, of her condition, tliat her state 
was lonely and sequestered, were sources of disquiet, the 
obvious remedy to which was her coming to New York. 
Preparations for departure were assigned to me, and these 
required my continuance in the city. 

Once a week, Laffert, her tenant, visited, for purposes of 
traffic, the city. He was the medium of our correspondence. 
To him I entrusted a letter, in which my dissatisfaction at 
her absence, and the causes which gave it birth, were freely 
confessed. 

The confidence of safety seldom deserted my friend. 
Since her mysterious conversation with Ormond, he had 
utterly vanished. Previously to that interview, his visits or 
liis letters were incessant and punctual ; but since, no token 
was given that he existed. Two months had elapsed. He 
gave her no reason to expect a cessation of intercourse. He 
had parted from her with his usual abruptness and informality. 
She did not conceive it incumbent on her to search him out, 
but s]ie would not have been displeased with an opportunity 
to discuss with him more fully the motives of her conduct. 
Tiiis opportunity had been hitlierto denied. 


ORMOND. 


235 

Her occupations, in her present retreat, were, for the 
most part, dictated by caprice or by chance. The mildness 
of autumn permitted her to ramble, during the day, from 
one rock and one grove to another. There was a luxury 
in musing, and in the sensations which the scenery and 
silence produced, which, in consequence of her long es- 
trangement from them, were accompanied with all the at- 
tractions of novelty, and from which she would not consent 
to withdraw. 

In the evening she usually retired to the mansion, and 
shut herself up in that apartment, which, in the original 
structure of tlie house, had been designed for study, and no 
part of whose furniture had been removed or displaced. It 
was a kind of closet on the second floor, illuminated by a 
spacious window, through which a landscape of uncommon 
amplitude and beauty was presented to the view. Here 
the pleasures of the day were revived, by recalling and 
enumerating them in letters to her friend. She always 
quitted this recess witli reluctance, and, seldom, till the night 
was half spent. 

One evening she retired hither when the sun had just 
dipped beneath the horizon. Her implements of writing 
were prepared, but before tlie pen was assumed, her eyes 
rested for a moment on the variegated hues, which were 
poured out upon the western sky, and upon the scene of 
intermingled waters, copses and fields. The view com- 
prised a part of the road which led to this dwelling. It was 
partially and distantly seen, and the passage of horses or 
men, was betokened chiefly by the dust which was raised 
by their footsteps. 

A token of this kind now caught her attention. It fixed 
her eye, chiefly by the picturesque effect produced by in- 
terposing its obscurity between her and the splendors which 
tlie sun had left. Presently she gained a faint view of a 
man and horse. This circumstance laid no claim to atten- 
tion, and she was withdrawing her eye, wdien the traveller’s 
stopping and dismounting at the gate, made her renew her 
scrutiny. This was reinforced by something in the figure 
and movements of the horseman, which reminded her of 
Ormond. 

She started from her seat with some degree of palpita- 


ORMOND. 


236 

tion. Whence this arose, whether from fear or from joy, or 
from intermixed emotions, it would not be easy to ascertain. 
Having entered the gate, the visitant, remounting his horse, 
set the animal on full speed. Every moment brought him 
nearer, and added to her first belief. He stopped not till 
he reached the mansion. The person of Ormond was dis- 
tinctly recognised. 

An interview, at this dusky and lonely hour, in circum- 
stances so abrupt and unexpected, could not fail to surprise, 
and, in some degree, to alarm. The substance of his last 
conversation was recalled. The evils w^hich w^ere darkly 
and ambiguously predicted, thronged to her memory. It 
seemed as if the present moment was to be, in some way, 
decisive of her fate. This visit, she did not hesitate to sup- 
pose, designed for her, but somewhat uncommonly momen- 
tous, must have prompted him to take so long a journey. 

The rooms on the lower floor were dark, the windows 
and doors being fastened. She had entered the house by 
the principal door, and this was the only one, at present, 
unlocked. The room in which she sat, was over the hall, 
and the massive door beneath could not be opened, without 
noisy signals. The question that occurred to her, by what 
means Ormond would gain admittance to her presence, she 
supposed would be instantly decided. She listened to hear 
his footsteps on the pavement, or the creaking of hinges. 
The silence, however, continued profound as before. 

After a minute’s pause, she approached the window more 
nearly, and endeavored to gain a view of the space before 
the house. She saw nothing but the horse, whose bridle 
was thrown over his neck, and who was left at liberty to 
pick up what scanty herbage the lawn afforded to his hunger. 
The rider had disappeared. 

It now occurred to her, that this visit had a purpose dif- 
ferent from that which she at first conjectured. It was 
easily conceived, that Ormond was unacquainted with her 
residence at tliis spot. The knowledge could only be im- 
parted to him, by indirect or illicit means. That these 
means had been employed by him, she was by no means 
authorized to infer from the silence and distance he had 
lately maintained. But if an interview with her, were not 
the purpose of his coming, how should she interpret it 3 


ORMOND. 


237 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

While occupied with these reflections, the light hastily- 
disappeared, and darkness, rendered, by a cloudy atmo- 
sphere, uncommonly intense, succeeded. She had the 
means of bghting a lamp, tliat hung against the \vall, but had 
been too much immersed in thought, to notice the deepen- 
ing of the gloom. Recovering from her reverie, she looked 
around her with some degree of trepidation, and prepared to 
strike a spark, that would enable her to light her lamp. 

She had liitherto indulged an habitual indifference to dan- 
ger. Now the presence of Oi’mond, the unknown purpose 
that led him hither, and the defencelessness of her condition, 
inspired her witli apprehensions, to which she had hitherto 
been a stranger. She had been accustomed to pass many 
nocturnal hours in tliis closet. Till now, nothing had occur- 
red, that made her enter it with circumspection, or continue 
in it with reluctance. 

Her sensations were no longer tranquil. Each minute 
that she spent in this recess, appeared to multiply her ha- 
zards. To linger here, appeared to her the height of 
culpable temerity. She hastily resolved to return to the 
farmer’s dwelling, and, on the morrow, to repair to New 
York. For this end, she was desirous to produce a light. 
The materials were at hand. 

She lifted her hand to strike the flint, when her ear caught 
a sound, which betokened the opening of the door, that led 
into the next apartment. Her motion was suspended, and 
she listened as well as a throbbing heart would permit. That 
Oi'mond’s was the hand that opened, was the first sugges- 
tion of her fears. The motives of this unseasonable entrance, 
could not be reconciled witli her safety. He had given no 
warning of his approach, and the door was opened with tar- 
diness and seeming caution. 

Sounds continued, of which no distinct conception could 
be obtained, or the cause that produced them assigned. The 
floors of every apartment being composed, like the walls and 
ceiling, of cement, footsteps were rendered almost undistin- 
guishable. It was plain, however, that some one approached 
her own door. 


ORMOND. 


238 

The panic and confusion that now invaded her, was owing 
to surprise, and to the singularity of her situation. The 
mansion was desolate and lonely. It was night. She was 
immersed in darkness. She had not the means, and was 
unaccustomed to the office of repelling personal injuries. 
What injuries she had reason to dread, who was the agent, 
and what were his motives, were subjects of vague and inco- 
herent meditation. 

Meanwhile, low and imperfect sounds, that had in them 
more of inanimate than human, assailed her ear. Presently 
they ceased. An inexplicable fear deterred her from calling. 
Light would have exercised a friendly influence. This, it 
was in her power to produce, but not without motion and 
noise, and these, by occasioning the discovery of her being 
in the closet, might possibly enhance her danger. 

Conceptions like these, were unworthy of the mind of Con- 
stantia. An interval of silence succeeded, interrupted only 
by the whistling of the blast without. It was sufficient for 
the restoration of her courage. She blushed at the coward- 
ice which had trembled at a sound. She considered that 
Ormond might, indeed, be near, but that he was probably 
unconscious of her situation. His coming was not with the 
circumspection of an enemy. He might be acquainted with 
the place of her retreat, and had come to obtain an interview, 
with no clandestine or mysterious purposes. The noises she 
had heard, had, doubtless, proceeded from the next apart- 
ment, but might be produced by some harmless or vagrant 
creature. 

These considerations restored her tranquillity. They en- 
abled her, deliberately, to create a light, but they did not 
dissuade her from leaving the house. Omens of evil seem- 
ed to be connected with this solitary and darksome abode. 
Besides, Ormond had unquestionably entered upon this 
scene. It could not be doubted that she was the object of 
his visit. The farm house was a place of meeting, more 
suitable and safe than any other. Thither, therefore, she 
determined immediately to return. 

The closet had but one door, and this led into the cham- 
ber where the sounds had arisen. Through this chamber, 
therefore, slie was obliged to pass, in order to reach tlie 
Staircase, which terminated in the hall below. 


ORMOlSfiD. 


239 

Bearing tlie light in her left hand, she withdrew the bolt 
of the door, and opened. In spite of courageous efforts, she 
opened with unwillingness, and shuddered to throw a glance 
forward or advance a step into the room. This was not 
needed, to reveal to her the cause of her late disturbance. 
Her eye instantly lighted on the body of a man, supine, mo- 
tionless, stretched on tlie floor, close to the door through 
which she was about to pass. 

A spectacle like this, was qualified to startle her. She 
shrunk back and fixed a more steadfast eye, upon the pros- 
trate person. There was no mark of blood or of wounds, 
but tliere was something in the attitude, more significant of 
death than of sleep. His face rested on the floor, and his 
ragged locks concealed w^hat part of his visage was not hid- 
den by his posture. His garb was characterized by fash- 
ionable elegance, but was polluted with dust. 

The image that first occurred to her, was that of Ormond. 
This instantly gave place to another, which was familiar to 
her apprehension. It was at first too indistinctly seen to sug- 
gest a name. She continued to gaze and to be lost in fear- 
ful astonishment. Was this the persen whose entrance had 
been overheard, and who had dragged himself hither to die 
at her door ^ Yet, in that case, \^ould not groans and ex- 
piring efforts have testified his condition, and invoked her 
succor W as he not brought hither in the arms of his assas- 
sin She mused upon the possible motives that induced 
some one thus to act, and upon the connexion that might 
subsist, between her destiny and that of tlie dead. 

Her meditations, however fruitless, in other respects, could 
not fail to show her the propriety of hastening from this spot. 
To scrutinize the form or face of the dead, was a task, to 
which her courage was unequal. Suitably accompanied and 
guarded, she would not scruple to return and ascertain, by 
the most sedulous examination, the causes of this ominous 
event. 

She stept over the breathless corpse, and hurried to the 
staircase. It became her to maintain the command of her 
muscles and joints, and to proceed without faltering or hesi- 
tation. Scarcely had she reached the entrance of the hall, 
when, casting anxious looks forward, she beheld a human 


ORMOND. 


^>40 

figure. No scrutiny was requisite to inform her, that this 
was Ormond. 

She stopped. He approached her with Jooks and ges- 
tures, placid but solemn. There was nothing in liis coun- 
tenance rugged or malignant. On the contrary, there were 
tokens of compassion. 

So, said he, 1 expected to meet you. A light, gleaming 
from the window, marked you out. This, and Laffert’s di- 
rections, have guided me. 

What said Constantia, with discomposure in her accent, 
was your motive for seeking me ^ 

Have you forgotten, said Ormond, what passed at our 
last interview'? The evil that I then predicted is at hand. 
Perhaps, you were incredulous ; you accounted me a mad- 
man or deciever ; now I am come to witness the fulfilment 
of my words, and the completion of your destiny. To rescue 
you, I have not come ; that is not within the compass of 
numan powers. 

Poor Constantia ! he continued, in tones tliat manifested 
genuine sympathy, look upon thyself as lost. The toils that 
beset thee are inextricable. Summon up thy patience to 
endure the evil. Now will the last and heaviest trial betide 
thy fortitude. I could weep for thee, if my manly nature 
would permit. Tliis is the scene of thy calamity, and tliis 
the hour. 

These words were adapted to excite curiosity mingled 
with terror. Ormond’s deportment was of an unexampled 
tenor, as well as that evil which he had so ambiguously pre- 
dicted. He offered no protection from danger, and yet gave 
no proof of being himself an agent or auxiliary. After a 
minute’s pause, Constantia recovering a firm tone, said : 

Mr. Ormond ! Your recent deportment but ill accords 
with your professions of sincerity and plain deding. What 
your purpose is, or whether you have any purpose, I am at 
a loss to conjecture. Whether you most deserve censure 
or ridicule, is a point which you afford me not the means of 
deciding, and to which, unless on your own account, 1 am 
indifferent. If you are willing to be more explicit, or if 
tliere be any topic on which you wish further to converse, 
I will not refuse your company to Laffert’s dwelling. I^ong- 
er to remain here, would be indiscreet and absurd. 


ORMOND. 


24i 


So saying she motioned towards the door. Ormond was 
passive, and seemed indisposed to prevent her departure, 
till she laid her hand upon the lock. He tlien, without mov- 
ing from his place, exclaimed. 

Stay. Must this meeting, which fate ordains to be the last, 
be so short Must a time and place so suitable, for what 
remains to be said and done, be neglected or misused 9 No. 
You charge me with duplicity, and deem my conduct either 
ridiculous or criminal. I have stated my reasons for con- 
cealment, but these have failed to convince you. Well. 
Here is now an end to doubt. All ambiguities are prepar- 
ing to vanish. 

AVhen Ormond began to speak, Constantia paused to 
hearken to him. His vehemence was not of that nature, 
which threatened to obstruct her passage. It was by en- 
treaty that he apparently endeavored to detain her steps, and 
not by violence. Hence arose her patience to listen. He 
continued. 

Constantia ! thy father is dead. Art thou not desirous of 
detecting the author of his fate *? Will it afford thee no con- 
solation to know that the deed is punished Wilt thou suf- 
fer me to drag the murderer to thy feet Thy justic e will 
be gratified by tliis sacrifice. Somewhat will be due to him 
who avenged thy wrong in the blood of the perpetrator 7 
What sayest tliou 9 Grant me thy permission, and, in a 
moment, I will drag him hither. 

These words called up the image of the person, whose 
corpse she had lately seen. It was readily conceived that to 
him Ormond alluded, but this was the assassin of her father, 
and his crime had been detected and punished by Ormond I 
These images had no other effect than to urge her depar- 
ture ; she again applied her hand to the lock, and said ; 

This scene must not be prolonged. My father’s death I 
desire not to hear explained or to see revenged, but what- 
ever information you are willing or able to communicate, 
must be deferred. 

Nay, interrupted Ormond, with augmented vehemence, 
art thou equally devoid of curiosity and justice 9 Thinkest 
thou, that the enmity which bereft tliy father of life, will not 
seek thy own 9 There are evils which I cannot prevent 
21 


ORMOND. 


242 

thee from enduring, but there are, likewise, ills which my 
counsel will enable thee and thy friend to shun. Save me 
from witnessing thy death. Thy father’s destiny is sealed ; 
all that remained was to punish his assassin ; but thou and 
thy Sophia still live. Why should ye perish by alike stroke*? 

This intimation was sufficient to arrest the steps of Con- 
stantia. She withdrew her hand from the door, and fixed 
eyes of the deepest anxiety on Ormond; — What mean you*? 
How am I to understand 

Ah ! said Ormond, I see thou w'ilt consent to stay. Thy 
detention shall not be long. Remain where thou art during 
one moment ; merely while I drag hidier thy enemy, and 
shew’ thee a visage which thou wilt not be slow to recognise. 
Saying this, he hastily ascended the staircase, and quickly 
passed beyond her sight. 

Deportment thus mysterious, could not fail of be^vildering 
her thoughts. There was somewhat in the looks and ac- 
cents of Ormond, different from former appearances ; tokens 
of a hidden purpose and a smothered meaning, were per- 
ceptible ; a mixture of the inoffensive and the lawless, which 
added to the loneliness and silence that encompassed her, 
produced a faltering emotion. Her curiosity was overpow- 
ered by her fear, and the resolution was suddenly conceived, 
of seizing this opportunity to escape. 

A tliird time she put her hand to the lock and attempted to 
open. The effort was ineffectual. The door that was ac- 
customed to obey tlie gentlest touch, was now immoveable. 
She had lately unlocked and passed tlirough it. Her eager 
inspection convinced her tliat the principal bolt was still with- 
dra^vn, but a smaller one was now perceived, of whose ex- 
istence she had not been apprized, and over which her key 
had no power. 

Now did she first harbor a fear that was intelligible in its 
dictates. Now did she first perceive herself sinking in the 
toils of some lurking enemy. Hope whispered that this foe 
was not Ormond. His conduct had bespoken no willing- 
ness to put consti’aint upon her steps. He talked not as if 
he was aware of this obstruction, and yet his seeming ac- 
quiescence might have flowed from a knowledge that she 
had no power to remove beyond his reach. 


ORMOND. 


243 

He warned her of danger to her life, of which he was her 
self-appointed rescuer. His counsel was to arm her with 
sufficient caution ; the peril that awaited her was imminent ; 
this was the time and place of its occurrence, and here- she 
was compelled to remain, till the power tliat fastened, would 
condescend to loose the door. There were other avenues 
to the hall. These were accustomed to be locked, but Or- 
mond had found access, and if all continued fast, it was in- 
contestable that he was the author of tliis new impediment. 

The other avenues were hastily examined. All were 
bolted and locked. Tlie first impulse led her to call for 
help from without, but the mansion was distant from Laffert’s 
habitation. This spot was wholly unfrequented. No pas- 
senger was likely to be stationed where her call could be 
heard. Besides, this forcible detention might operate for a 
short time, and be attended with no miscliievous conse- 
quences. Whatever was to come, it was her duty to collect 
her courage and encounter it. 

The steps of Ormond above now gave tokens of his ap- 
proach. Vigilant observance of ffiis man was all that her 
situation permitted. A vehement efibrt restored her to some 
degree of composure. Her stifled palpitations allowed her 
steadfastly to notice him, as he now descended the stairs, 
bearing a lifeless body in his ai’ms. There, said he, as he 
cast it at her feet, whose countenance is that 9 Who would 
imagine that features like those, belonged to an assassin and 
imposter ? 

Closed eyelids and fallen muscles, could not hide from 
her lineaments so often seen. She shrunk back and exclaim- 
ed — Thomas Craig ! 

A pause succeeded, in which she alternately gazed at the 
countenance of this unfortunate wretch and at Onnond. At 
length, the latter exclaimed. 

Well, my girl ; hast thou examined him 9 Dost thou re- 
cognise a friend or an enemy 9 

I know him well ; but how came this f What purpose 
brought him hither ? Who was tlie author of his fate 9 

Have I not already told thee that Ormond was his own 
avenger and thine 9 To tliee and to me he has been a rob- 
ber. To him thy father is indebted for the loss not only of 
property but life. Did crimes like these merit a less pun- 


244 


ORMOND. 


ishment ? And what recompense is due to him whose vigi- 
lance pursued him hither, and made him pay for his offences 
with liis blood ^ What benefit have I received at thy hand 
to authorize me, for thy sake, to take away his life ? 

No benefit received from me, said Constantia, would jus- 
tify such an act. I should have abhorred myself for annex- 
ing to my benefits, so bloody a condition. It calls for no 
gratitude for recompense. Its suitable attendant is remorse. 
That he is a thief, I know but too well ; that my father died 

by his hand is incredible. — No motives or means 

Why so 9 interrupted Ormond. Does not sleep seal up 
the senses ^ Cannot closets be unlocked at midnight ? Can- 
not adjoining houses communicate by doors 9 Cannot tliese 
doors be hidden from suspicion by a sheet of canvass 9 
These words were of startling and abundant import. They 
reminded her of circumstances in her father’s chamber, 
which sufficiently explained the means by which his life was 
assailed. The closet, and its canvass-covered wall ; the ad- 
joining house untenanted and shut up — but this house, though 
unoccupied, belonged to Ormond ! From the inferences 
which flowed hence, her attention was withdrawn by her 
companion, who continued. 

Do these means imply the interposal of a miracle ? His 
motives 9 What scruples can be expected from a man in- 
ured, from infancy, to cunning and pillage Will he abstain 
from murder when urged by excruciating poverty, by men- 
aces of persecution ; by terror of expiring on the gallows ? 

Tumultuous suspicions were now awakened in the mind 
of Constantia. Her faltering voice scarcely allowed her to 
ask ; how know you that Craig was thus guilty ; that these 
were his incitements and means 9 — 

Ormond’s solemnity now gave place to a tone of sarcasm 
and looks of exultation. Poor Constantia ! Thou art still 
pestered with incredulity and doubts ! My veracity is still in 
question! My knowledge, girl, is infallible. Tliat these were 
liis means of access I cannot be ignorant, for I pointed them 
out. He was urged by these motives, for they were stated 
and enforced by me. His was tlie deed, for I stood beside 
him when it was done. 

These indeed, were terms that stood in no need of further 
explanation. Tlie veil that shrpuded this formidable bping. 


ORMOND. 


245 

was lifted high enough to make him be regarded with inex- 
plicable hoiTor. What his future acts should be, how his 
omens of ill were to be solved, were still involved in uncer- 
tainty. 

In the midst of fears for her own safety, by which Con- 
stantia was now assailed, the image of her father was revived ; 
keen regret and vehement upbraiding were conjured up. 

Craig then was the instrument, and your’s the instigation 
that destroyed my father ! In what had he offended you 
What cause had he given for resentment 

Cause ! replied he, with impetuous accents. Resentment ! 
None. My motive was benevolent ; my deed conferred a 
benefit. I gave him sight and took away his life, from mo- 
tives equally wise. Know you not that Ormond was fool 
enough to set value on the affections of a woman These 
were sought with preposterous anxiety and endless labor. 
Among other facilitators of his purpose, he summoned grati- 
tude to his aid. To snatch you from poverty, to restore his 
sight to your father, were expected to operate as incentives 
to love. 

But here I was the dupe of error. A thousand prejudices 
stood in my way. Tliese, pro\’ided our intercourse were 
not obstructed, I hoped to subdue. The rage of innovation 
seized your father; this, blended with a mortal antipathy 
to me, made him labor to seduce you from tlie bosom of 
your peaceful country ; to make you enter on a boisterous 
sea ; to visit lands where all is havoc and hostility. To 
snatch you from the influence of my arguments. 

This new obstacle I was bound to remove. While revolv- 
ing the means, chance and his evil destiny, threw Craig in my 
way. I soon convinced him that his reputation and his life 
were in my hands. His retention of these depended upon 
my will, on the performance of conditions which I prescribed. 

My happiness and your’s, depended on your concurrence 
with my vrishes. Your father’s life was an obstacle to your 
concurrence. For killing him, therefore, I may claim your 
gratitude. His death was a due and disinterested offering, 
at the altar of your felicity and mine. 

My deed was not injurious to him. At his age, deatli, 
whose coming, at some period, is inevitable, could not be 
distant. To make it unforeseen and brief, and void of pain ; 

2 ) * 


ORMOND. 


246 

to preclude the torments of a lingering malady; a slow and 
visible descent to the grave ; was the dictates of beneficence. 
But of what value was a continuance of his life 9 Either 
you would have gone with him to Europe, or have staid at 
home with me. Li the first case, his life would have been 
rapidly consumed by perils and cares. In the second, sepa- 
ration from you, and union with me, a being so detestable, 
would equally have poisoned his existence. 

Craig’s cowardice and crimes, made him a pliant and com- 
modious tool. I pointed out the way. The unsuspected 
door, which led into the closet of your father’s chamber, 
was made by my direction, during the life of Helena. By 
this avenue I was wont to post myself, where all your con- 
versations could be overheard. By this avenue, an entrance 
and retreat were afforded to tlie agent of my newest pur- 
pose. 

Fool that I was! I solaced myself with the belief that all 
impediments were now smoothed, when a new enemy ap- 
peared ; my folly lasted as long as my hope. I saw that to 
gain your affections, fortified by antiquated scruples, and ob- 
sequious to the guidance of tliis new monitor, was impossible. 
It is not my way to toil after that which is beyond my reach. 
If the greater good be inaccessible, I learn to be contented 
wth the less. 

I have served you with successless sedulity. I have set 
an engine in act to obliterate an obstacle to your felicity, and 
lay your fatlier at rest. Under my guidance, this engine 
was productive only of good. Governed by itself or by 
another, it will only work you harm. I have, therefore, 
hastened to destroy it. Lo ! it is now before you motionless 
and impotent. 

For this complexity of benefit I look for no reward. I 
am not tired of well-doing. Having ceased to labor for an 
unattainable good, I have come hither to possess myself of all 
that I now crave, and by the same deed to afford you an 
illustrious opportunity to signalize your wisdom and your for- 
titude. 

During this speech, the mind of Constantia became more 
deeply pervaded with dread of some over-hanging hut in- 
comprehensible evil. The strongest impulse was, to gain a 
safe asylum, at a distance from this spot, and from the pre- 


ORMOND. 


247 

sence of this extraordinary being, niis impulse was fol- 
lowed by the recollection, that her liberty was taken away ; 
that egress from the ball was denied her, and that this re- 
striction might be part of some conspiracy of Ormond, 
against her life. 

Security from danger like this, would be, in the first 
place, sought, by one of Constantia’s sex and opinions, in 
flight. This had been rendered, by some fatal chance, or 
by the precautions of her foe, impracticable. Stratagem or 
force was all that remained, to elude or disarm her adver- 
sary. For the contrivance and execution of frauds, all the 
habits of her life and all the maxims of her education, had 
conspired to unfit her. Her force of muscles would avail 
her nothing, against the superior energy of Ormond. 

She remembered that to inflict death, was no iniquitous 
exertion of self defence, and that the penknife which she 
held in her hand, was capable of this service. She had 
used it to remove any lurking obstruction in the wards of 
her key, supposing, for a time, this to be the cause of her 
failing to withdraw the bolt of the door. Tliis resource, 
was, indeed, scarcely less disastrous and deplorable, than 
any fate from which it could rescue her. Some uncertainty 
still involved the intentions of Ormond. As soon as he 
paused, she spoke. 

How am I to understand this prelude 9 Let me know 
tlie full extent of my danger ; why it is tliat I am hindered 
from leaving this house, and why this interview was sought. 

Ah ! Constantia ! This, indeed, is merely a prelude to a 
scene that is to terminate my influence over thy fate. When 
this is past, I have sworn to part with diee forever. Art 
thou still dubious of my purpose 9 Art thou not a woman ? 
And have I not intreated for thy love, and been rejected 

Canst thou imagine that I aim at thy life 9 My avowals 
of love were sincere ; my passion w’as vehement and undis- 
guised. It gave dignity and value to a gift in thy power, as 
a woman, to bestow. Tliis has been denied. That gift has 
lost none of its value in my eyes. What thou refusedst to 
bestow, it is in my power to extort. I came for hat end. 
When tliis end is accomplished, I will restore thee to liberty. 

These words were accompanied by looks, that rendered 
all explanation of their meaning useless. The evil reserved 


ORMOND. 


248 

for her, hitherto obscured by half disclosed and contradic- 
tory attributes, was now sufficiently apparent. The truth 
in this respect unveiled itself with the rapidity and brightness 
of an electrical flash. 

She was silent. She cast her eyes at the windows and 
doors. Escape through them was hopeless. She looked at 
those lineaments of Ormond which evinced his disdain of 
supplication and inexorable passions. She felt that intreaty 
and argument would be vain. That all appeals to his com- 
passion and benevolence would counteract her purpose, since, 
in the unexampled conformation of this man’s mind, these 
principles were made subservient to his most flagitious de- 
signs. Considerations of justice and pity were made, by a 
fatal perverseness of reasoning, champions and bulwarks of 
his most atrocious mistakes. 

The last extremes of opposition, the most violent expe- 
dients for defence, would be justified by being indispensable. 
To find safety for her honor, even in the blood of an as- 
sailant, was the prescription of duty. The equity of this 
species of defence, was not, in the present confusion of her 
mind, a subject of momentary doubt. 

To forewarn him of her desperate purpose, would be to 
furnish him witli means of counteraction. Her weapon 
would easily be wrested from her feeble hand. Ineffectual 
opposition would only precipitate her evil destiny. A rage, 
contented with nothing less than her life, might be awakened 
in his bosom. But was not tliis to be desired 9 Death, 
untimely and violent, was better than the loss of honor. 

Tliis thought led to a new series of reflections. She 
involuntarily shrunk from the act of killing, but would her 
efforts to destroy her adversary be effectual 9 Would not 
his strength and dexterity, easily repel or elude them 9 Her 
power, in this respect, was questionable, but her power 
was undeniably sufficient to a diferent end. The instrument, 
which could not rescue her from this injury, by the destruc- 
tion of another, might save her from it by her own destruc- 
tion. 

These tlioughts rapidly occurred, but the resolution to 
which they led, was scarcely formed, when Ormond advanced 
towards her. She recoiled a few steps, and, shewing tlie 
knife which she held, said : 


ORMOND. 


249 

Ormond ! Beware ! Know that my unalterable resolution 
is, to die uninjured. I have the means in my power. Stop 
where you are ; one step more, and I plunge this knife into 
my heart. I know that to contend with your strength or 
your reason, would be vain. To turn this weapon against 
you, I should not fear, if I were sure of success ; but to 
that I will not trust. To save a greater good by the sacri- 
fice of life, is in my power, and that sacrifice shall be 
made. 

Poor Constantia ! replied Ormond, in a tone of contempt ; 
so ! thou preferrest thy imaginary honor to life ! To escape 
this injury without a name or substance. Without connex- 
ion with the past or future ; without contamination of thy 
purity or thraldom of thy will ; thou wilt kill thyself ; put 
an end to thy activity in virtue’s cause ; rob thy friend 
of her solace ; the world of thy beneficence ; thyself of 
being and pleasure 9 

I shall be grieved for the fatal issue of my experiment ; 
I shall mourn over thy martyrdom to the most opprobious 
and contemptible of all errors, but that thou shouldst under- 
go the trial is decreed. There is still an interval of hope, 
that thy cowardice is counterfeited, or that it will give place 
to wisdom and courage. 

Whatever thou intendest, by way of prevention or cure, 
it behoves thee to employ with steadfastness. Die with the 
guilt of suicide and the brand of cowardice upon thy mem- 
ory, or live with thy claims to felicity and approbation un- 
diminished. Choose which thou wilt. Thy decision is of 
moment to thyself, but of none to me. Living or dead, 
the prize that I have in view shall be mine. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

It will be requisite to withdraw your attention from this 
scene for a moment, and fix it on myself. My impatience 
of my friend’s delay, for some day’s preceding this disastrous 
interview, became continually more painful. As the time of 
our departure approached, my dread of some misfortune or 
impediment increased. Ormond’s disappearance from the 


ORMOND. 


250 

scene, contiibuted but little to my consolation. To wrap 
his purposes in mystery, to place himself at seeming distance, 
was the usual artifice of such as he ; was necessary to the 
maturing of his project, and the hopeless entanglement of his 
victim. I saw no means of placing the safety of my friend 
beyond his reach. Between different metliods of procedure, 
there was, however, room for choice. Her present abode 
was more hazardous than an abode in the city. To be alone, 
argued a state more defenceless and perilous, than to be 
attended by me. 

I wrote her an urgent admonition to return. My remon- 
strances were couched in such terms, as, in my own opinion, 
laid her under the necessity of immediate compliance. The 
letter was despatched by the usual messenger, and for some 
hours I solaced myself witli the prospect of a speedy meeting. 

These thoughts gave place to doubt and apprehension. 
I began to distrust the efficacy of my arguments, and to 
invent a thousand reasons, inducing her, in defiance of my 
rhetoric, at least to protract her absence. These reasons, 
I had not previously conceived, and had not, therefore, at- 
tempted, in my letter, to invalidate their force. Tliis omis- 
sion was possible to be supplied in a second epistle, but, 
meanwhile, time would be lost, and my new arguments, 
might, like the old, fail to convince her. At least, tlie 
tongue was a much more versatile and powerful advocate 
than the pen, and by hastening to her habitation, I might 
either compel her to return with me, or ward off danger by 
my presence, or share it with her. I finally resolved to join 
her, by the speediest conveyance. 

This resolution was suggested, by the meditations of a 
sleepless night. I rose with the dawn and sought out the 
means of transporting myself, with most celerity, to the abode 
of my friend. A stageboat, accustomed, twice a day, to 
cross New York bay to Staten Island, was prevailed upon, 
by liberal offers, to set out upon the voyage at the dawn of 
day. The sky was gloomy, and the air boisterous and un- 
settled. The wind, suddenly becoming tempestuous and 
adverse, rendered the voyage at once tedious and full of 
peril. A voyage of nine miles was not effected in less than 
eight hours, and witliout imminent and hairbreadtli danger 
of being drowned. 


ORMOND. 


^51 

Fifteen miles of the journey remained to be performed 
by land. A carriage, with the utmost difficulty, was pro- 
cured, but lank horses and a crazy vehicle were but little in 
unison with my impatience. We reached not Amboy ferry 
till some hours after nightfall. I was rowed across the 
sound, and proceeded to accomplish the remainder of my 
journey, about tliree miles, on foot. 

I was actuated to this speed, by indefinite, but powerful 
motives. The belief that my speedy arrival was essential to 
the rescue of my friend from some inexplicable injury, haunt- 
ed me with ceaseless importunity. On no account would I 
have consented to postpone this precipitate expedition, till 
the morrow. 

I at length arrived at Dudley’s farmhouse. The inliabit- 
ants were struck with wonder at the sight of me. My 
clothes were stained by the water, by which every passenger 
was copiously sprinkled, during our boisterous navigation, 
and soiled by dust ; my frame was almost overpowered by 
fatigue and abstinence. 

To my anxious inquiries respecting my friend, they told 
me that her evenings were usually spent at the mansion, 
where, it was probable, she was now to be found. They 
were not apprized of any inconvenience or danger, that 
betided her. It was her custom sometimes to prolong her 
absence till midnight. 

I could not applaud the discretion nor censure the temerity 
of this proceeding. My mind was harassed by unintelligi- 
ble omens and self-confuted fears. To obviate the danger 
and to banish my inquietudes, was my first duty. For this 
end I hastened to the mansion. Having passed the inter- 
vening hillocks and copses, I gained a view of the front of 
the building. My heart suddenly sunk, on observing that 
no apartment, not even that in w^hich I knew it was hpr 
custom to sit at these unseasonable hours, was illuminated. 
A gleam from the window of the study, I should have re- 
garded as an argument, at once, of her presence and her 
safety. 

I approached the house with misgiving and faltering steps. 
The gate leading into a spacious court was open. A sound 
on one side attracted my attention. In the present state of 
my thoughts, any near or unexplained sound, sufficed to 


ORMOND. 


252 

startle me. Looking towards the quarter, whence my panic 
was excited, I espied, through the dusk, a horse grazing, 
with his bridle thrown over his neck. 

This appearance was a new source of perplexity and 
alarm. The inference was unavoidable, that a visitant was 
here. Who that visitant was, and how he was now employed, 
was a subject of eager but fruitless curiosity. Witliin and 
around the mansion, all was buried in the deepest repose. 
I now approached the principal door, and looking through 
the keyhole, perceived a lamp, standing on the lowest step 
of the staircase. It shed a pale light over the lofty cieling 
and marble balustrades. No face or movement of a human 
being was perceptible. 

These tokens assured me that some one was within ; they 
also accounted for the nonappearance of light, at the window 
above. I withdrew my eye from this avenue, and was pre- 
paring to knock loudly for admission, when my attention 
was awakened by some one, who advanced to the door 
from the inside, and seemed busily engaged in unlocldng. 
I started back and waited with impatience, till the door 
should open and the person issue forth. 

Presently I heard a voice within, exclaim, in accents of 
mingled terror and grief — O what — ^what will become of 
me 9 Shall I never be released from this detested prison ? 

The voice was that of Constantia. It penetrated to my 
heart like an icebolt. I once more darted a glance through 
tlie crevice. A figure, with difficulty recognised to be that 
of my friend, now appeared in sight. Her hands were 
clasped on her breast, her eyes wildly fixed upon the ceiling 
and streaming with tears, and her hair unbound and falling 
confusedly over her bosom and neck. 

My sensations scarcely permitted me to call — Constan- 
tia ! For Heaven’s sake what has happened to you Open 
the door, I beseech you. 

What voice is that Sophia Courtland ! O my friend ! I 
am imprisoned. Some daemon has barred the door, be- 
yond my power to unfasten. Ah ! Why comest thou so 
late Thy succor w’^ould have somewdiat profited, if sooner 
given, but now, the lost Constantia — here her voice sunk 
into convulsive sobs. — 

In the midst of my owm despair, on perceiving the fulfil- 


ORMOND. 


253 


merit of my apprehensions, and what I regarded as the fatal 
execution of some project of Ormond, I was not insensible 
to the suggestions of prudence. 1 entreated my friend to 
retain her courage, while I flew to Laffert’s, and returned 
with suitable assistance to burst open the door. 

The people of the farm house readily obeyed my sum- 
mons. Accompanied by three men of powerful sinews, 
sons and servants of the farmer, I returned with the utmost 
expedition to the mansion. The lamp still remained in its 
former place, but our loudest calls were unanswered. The 
silence was uninterrupted and profound. 

The door yielded to strenuous and repeated efforts, and I 
rushed into the hall. The first object that met my sight, 
was my friend, stretched upon the floor, pale and motionless, 
supine, and with all the tokens of death ! 

From this object my attention was speedily attracted, by 
two figures, breathless and supine, like that of Constantia. 
One of them was Ormond. A smile of disdain still sat upon 
his features. The wound, by which he fell, was secret, and 
was scarcely betrayed by the effusion of a drop of blood. 
The face of the third victim was familiar to my early days. 
It was that of the ' imposter, whose artifice had torn from Mr 
Dudley his peace and fortune. 

An explication of this scene was hopeless. By what dis- 
astrous and inscrutable fate, a place like this became the 
scene of such complicated havoc, to whom Craig was in- 
debted for his death, what evil had been meditated or in- 
flicted by Ormond, and by what means his project had 
arrived at this bloody consummation, were topics of wild and 
fearful conjecture. 

But my friend — the first impulse of my fears was, to re- 
gard her as dead. Hope and a closer observation, outrooted, 
or at least, suspended this opinion. One of the men lifted 
her in his arms. No trace of blood or mark of fatal violence 
was discoverable, and the effusion of cold water restored her, 
though slowly, to life. 

To withdraw her from this spectacle of death was my 
first care. She suffered herself to be led to the farm house. 
She was carried to her chamber. For a time she appeared 
22 


ORMOND, 


254 

incapable of recollection. She grasped my hand, as I sat by 
her bedside, but scarcely gave any other tokens of life. 

From this state of inactivity she gradually recovered. I 
was actuated by a thousand forebodings, but refrained from 
molesting her by interrogation or condolence. I watched 
by her side in silence, but was eager to collect from her own 
lips, an account of this mysterious transaction. 

At length she opened her eyes, and appeared to recollect 
her present situation, and the events which led to it. I in- 
quired into her condition, and asked if there were any thing 
in my power to procure or perform for her. 

O ! my friend ! she answered, what have I done ; what 
have I suffered within the last dreadful hour ^ The remem- 
brance, though insupportable, will never leave me. You can 
do nothing for my relief. All I claim is your compassion and 
your sympathy. 

1 hope, said I, that nothing has happened to load you with 
guilt or with shame. 

Alas ! I know not. My deed was scarcely the fruit of in- 
tention. It was suggested by a momentary frenzy. I saw 
no other means of escaping from vileness and pollution. 1‘ 
was menaced with an evil worse than death. I forbore till 
my strength was almost subdued ; the lapse of anotlier mo- 
ment would have placed me beyond hope. 

My stroke was desperate and at random. It answered 
my purpose too well. He cast at me a look of terrible up- 
braiding, but spoke not. His heart was pierced, and he 
sunk, as if struck by lightning, at my feet. O much erring 
and unhappy Ormond ! That thou shouldst thus untimely 
perish ! That I should be thy executioner ! 

These words sufficiently explained the scene that I had 
witnessed. The violence of Ormond had been repulsed 
by equal violence. His foul attempts had been prevented 
by his death. Not to deplore the necessity which had 
produced this act was impossible ; but, since this necessity 
existed, it was surely not a deed to be thought upon with 
lasting horror, or to be allowed to generate remorse. 

In consequence of this catastrophe, arduous duties had 
devolved upon me. The people that surrounded me, were 
powerless with terror. Their ignorance and cowardice left 
them at a loss how to act in this emergency. They besought 


ORMOND. 


255 

my direction, and willingly performed whatever I thought 
proper to enjoin upon them. 

No deliberation was necessary to acquaint me with my 
duty. LafFert was despatched to the nearest magistrate with 
a letter, in which his immediate presence was entreated, 
and these transactions were briefly explained. Early the 
next day the formalities of justice, in the inspection of the 
bodies and the examination of witnesses, were executed. 
It would be needless to dwell on the particulars of this 
catastrophe. A sufficient explanation has been given of the 
causes that led to it. They were such as exempted my 
friend from legal animadversion. Her act was prompted by 
motives which every scheme of jurisprudence known in the 
world not only exculpates, but applauds. To state these 
motives, before a tribunal hastily formed, and exercising its 
functions on the spot, was a task not to be avoided, though 
infinitely painful. Remonstrances, the most urgent and pa- 
thetic, could scarcely conquer her reluctance. 

This task, however, was easy, in comparison with that 
which remained. To restore health and equanimity to my 
friend; to repel the erroneous accusations of her conscience ; 
to hinder her from musing, with eternal anguish, upon this 
catastrophe ; to lay the spirit of secret upbraiding by which 
she was incessantly tormented ; which bereft her of repose ; 
empoisoned all her enjoyments, and menaced, not only the 
subversion of her peace, but the speedy destruction of her 
life, became my next employment. 

My counsels and remonstrances were not wholly ineffica- 
cious. They afforded me the prospect of her ultimate res- 
toration to tranquillity. INIeanwhile, I called to my aid, the 
influence of time and of a change of scene. I hastened to 
embark with her for Europe. Our voyage was tempestuous 
and dangerous, but storms and perils at length gave way to 
security and repose. 

Before our voyage was commenced, I endeavored to pro- 
cure tidings of the true condition and designs of Ormond. 
My information extended no further, than that he had put his 
American property into the hands of Mr. Melbourne, and 
was preparing to embark for France. Courtland, who has 
.jsince been at Paris, and \vho, while there, became confi- 


'256 


ORMOND. 


dentially acquainted with Martinette de Beauvais, has com" 
municated facts of an unexpected nature. 

At the period of Ormond’s return to Philadelphia, at which 
his last interview with Constantia, in that city, took place, he 
visited Martinette. He avowed himself to be her brother, 
and supported his pretensions, by relating the incidents of 
his early life. A separation, at the age of fifteen, and which 
had lasted for the same number of years, may be supposed 
to have considerably changed the countenance and figure 
she had formerly known. His relationship was chiefly 
proved, by the enumeration of incidents, of which her brother 
only could be apprized. 

He possessed a minute acquaintance with her own adven- 
tures, but concealed from her the means by which he had 
procured the knowledge. He had rarely and imperfectly 
alluded to his own opinions and projects, and had maintained 
an invariable silence, on the subject of his connexion with 
Constantia and Helena. Being informed of her intention to 
return to France, he readily complied with her request to 
accompany her in this voyage. His intentions in this respect, 
were frustrated by the dreadful catastrophe that has been 
just related. Respecting this event, Martinette had collected 
only vague and perplexing information. Courtland, though 
able to remove her doubts, thought proper to withhold from 
her the knowledge he possessed. 

Since her arrival in England, the life of my friend has ex- 
perienced little variation. Of her personal deportment and 
domestic habits, you have been a witness. These, therefore, 
it would be needless for me to exhibit. It is sufficient to 
have related events, which the recentness of your intercourse 
with her hindered you from knovdng, but by means of some 
formal narrative like the present. She and her friend only 
were able to impart to you the knowledge which you have 
so anxiously sought. In consideration of your merits and of 
your attachment to my friend, I have consented to devote my 
leisure to this task. 

It is now finished, and I have only to add my wishes, that 
the perusal of this tale may afford you as much instruction, 
as the contemplation of the sufferings and vicissitudes of 
Constantia Dudley has afforded to me. Farewell. 


CLARA HOWARD; 


OR THE 


ENTHUSIASM OF L.OVE. 


BY CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 


BOSTON, 

PUBLISHED BY S. G. GOODRICH, 

s6LD by BOWLES AND DEARBORN, BOSTON; G. AND C. CARVILL, 
NEW YORK; AND H. C. CAREY AND I. LEA, PHILADELPHIA 


MDCCCXXVII. 


BOSTON, 

Tsaac R. Butts & Co. Printers. 


INTRODUCTION. 


— 

'J'Q ************ ***************. 


W^HAT could excite in you any curiosi- 
ty as to my affairs'? You once knew me a simple lad, 
plying the file and tweezers at the bench of a watch- 
maker, with no prospect before me but of laboring, for a 
few years at least, as a petty and obscure journeyman, 
at the same bench where I worked five years as an ap- 
prentice. I was sprung from obscurity, destitute of pro- 
perty, of parents, of paternal friends ; was full of that 
rustic diffidence, that inveterate humility, which are alone 
sufficient to divert from us the stream of fortune’s favors. 

Such was I three years ago ! Now am I rich, happy, 
crowned with every terrestrial felicity, in possession of 
that most exquisite of all blessings, a wife, endowed with 
youth, grace, dignity, discretion. 

I do not, on second thoughts, wonder at your curiosi- 
ty, It was impossible for me to have foreseen, absurd to 


have hoped for such a destiny. All that has happened, 
was equally beyond my expectations and deservings. 

You ask me, how all these surprising things came 
about ? The enclosed letters, which I have put into a 
regular series, contain all the information you wish. The 
packet is a precious one; you will find in it a more 
lively and exact picture of my life, than it is possible, 
by any other means, to communicate. Preserve it, there- 
fore, with care, and return it safely and entire, sooli 
as you have have read it. 


CLARA HOWARD 


LETTER 1. 

To Clara Howard, 

New York, March 7. 

Why do I write 9 For whose use do I pass my time thusl^ 
There is no one living who cares a jot for me. There was a 
time, when a throbbing heart, a trembling hand, and eager 
eyes, were always prepared to read, and ruminate on the 
scantiest and poorest scribble that dropped from my pen ; 
but she has disappeared ; the veil between us is like death. 

Yet why should I so utterly despair of finding her ? What 
all my toils may not accomplish, may be effected at a mo-^ 
ment the least expected, and in a manner the least probable. 
I may travel a thousand miles north and south, and not find 
her. I may lingeringly and reluctantly give up the fruitless 
search, and return home. A few hours after, I may stroll, in 
a melancholy, hopeless mood, into the next street — and meet 
her. By such invisible threads is the unwitting man led 
through this maze of life ! 

But how will she be met Perhaps — horrid thought ! — 
she may have become vile, polluted ; and how shall I endure 
to meet her in that condition ! One so delicate, carrying 
dignity to the verge — beyond the verge of pride ; preferring 
to starve rather than incur contempt. But that degradation 
is impossible. 

Yet, if she dreaded not my censure, if she despaired not 
of my acquiescence in her schemes, why conceal from me 


6 


CLARA HOWARD. 


her flight 9 Why not leave behind her a cold farewell. 
Could she be insensible to the torments and inquietudes, 
which her silence would entail upon me 9 Could she ques- 
tion the continuance and fervency of my zeal for your wel- 
fare 9 What have I done to estrange her heart, to awaken 
her resentment 9 

She does not live with Sedley. That question Mr. Phil- 
lip’s report has decided. At least she does not live with 
him as his ivife. Impossible that Mary Wilmot should be 
allied to any man by a different tie. It is sacrilege so much 
as to whisper to one’s heart the surmise. Yet have I not 
written it 9 Have I not several times pondered on it 9 What 
has so often suggested these frightful images 9 

This mysterious, this impenetrable silence it is, that as- 
tounds and perplexes me — this evident desire, which her 
conduct betrayed, to be not sought after by me, and this de- 
parture in company with Sedley — the man whom so long a 
devotion, so many services, had not induced her to suffer 
his visits. To sever herself thus abruptly and for ever from 
me, to whom she had given all her tenderness, with whom 
she had divided all her cares, during years — to whom the 
marriage promise had been solemnly pledged, and trust her- 
self, on some long and incomprehensible journey, with one 
whom she had thought it her duty to shun — to exclude, on 
all occasions, from her company — is beyond my comprehen- 
sion. 

But I am tired of the pen already— -of myself — of the 
world. 

* ****** 
********** 

Ah, Clara ! can so groundless a punctilio govern thee 9 
The settled gloom of thy aspect ; thy agitation, when too ten- 
derly urged by me ; thy tears, that, in spite of heroic reso- 
lutions, will sometimes find way, prove thy heart to be still 
inine. 

But I will urge thee, I will distress thee no more. Thy 
last words have put an end to my importunity. Can I ever 
forget them, or the looks and gestures with which they were 
spoken 9 

“ I never will be yours ! Have I not heard all your pleas 
— all your reasonings 9 And am I not now furnished with all 


CLARA HOWARD. 


7 


the means of a right judgment 9 I have listened to you 
twenty times upon this topic, and always patiently. Now 
listen to me. 

“ I never will be yours, while Mary’s condition is unknown. 

I never will be yours, while she is single ; unmarried to an- 
other, and unhappy. I will have no intercourse with you. 

I will not grant you even my esteem, unless you search for 
her, find her, and oblige her to accept your vows. 

“ There is now no obstacle on account of fortune. I have 
enough for several, and will give you half. All that my pa- 
rents have, and you know they are rich, they will either 
divide between you and me, or will give entirely to me. In 
either case, competence, and even abundance, shall be hers 
and yours.” 

******* * ** 

’Tis nine months since I first entered this house ; not on 
the footing of a stranger or a guest, but of a child. Yet my 
claims upon my revered friend are not filial. He loves me, 
because all the virtues I possess are of his own planting and 
rearing. He that was once the pupil has now become the 
son. 

How painful and how sweet is the review of the past year ! 
How benign were the auspices under which I entered this 
house ! Commended to the confidence and love of their 
daughter, treated with complacency, at first ; then with con- 
fidence by that daughter ; and, finally, honored with her 
love. And yet, a single conversation — the mention of one 
unhappy name, has reversed totally my condition. I am still 
beloved by Clara ; but that passion produces nothing but her 
misery and mine. 

I must go, she tells me ; and duty tells me that I must 
go in search of the fugitive. I will not rest till I have ascer- 
tained her destiny. Yet I can forebode nothing but evil. 
The truth, whatever it be, will avail me nothing. 

I set out to-morrow ; meanwhile Clara shall have this 
scribble ; perhaps she will not spurn it. Wilt thou, Clara 
Thou once lovedst me ; perhaps, dost love me still ; yet of 
that I must entertain some doubts. I part with thee tomor- 
row, perhaps, for ever. This I will put into thy hands at 
parting. Philip Stanley. 


8 


CLARA HOWARD. 


LETTER 11. 

To Clara Howard. 

Hatfield, March, 20. 

You knew my intention to stop, a few days, at this place, 
to see my sisters, and my old friend. I promised to write 
to you, and inform you of my welfare. I gave the promise 
with coldness and reluctance, because I predicted that no 
benefit would flow to either from our correspondence. Will 
you believe that I was a little sullen at our parting ; that your 
seeming cheerfulness was construed by my perverse heart 
into something very odious ^ The words inhuman and in- 
sensible girl rose to my lips, and had like to have been 
uttered aloud. 

I did not reflect, that, since you have resolved to pursue 
a certain path, my regard for you, if unmixed with selfish- 
ness, should prompt me to wish, that you may encounter as 
few asperities as possible, and to rejoice at the easiness of a 
sacrifice, which, whether difficult or easy, must be made. 

I had not left you a day, before my inconstant disposition 
restored me to my virtuous feelings. I repented of the cold- 
ness with which I had consented to your scheme of corres- 
pondence, and tormented myself with imagining those pangs 
which my injustice must have given you. I determined to 
repair my fault as quickly as possible; to write to you often, 
and in a strain worthy of one who can enter into your feel- 
ings, and estimate, at its true value, the motive which go- 
verns your actions. 

I have, indeed, new and more urgent motives for writing. 
I arrived at this hospitable mansion late in the evening. I 
have retired, for the first time, to my chamber, and have in- 
stantly taken up my pen. The nature of the tidings I send 
will justify my haste. I will relate what has happened, 
without further preface. 

I approached my friend’s door, and lifted the latch without 
giving any signal of my approach. I found tlie old gentleman, 
seated with his pipe, near the fire, and looking placidly c«i 
the two girls, who were busy at draughts, for which they 


CLARA HOWARD. 


t) 

had made squares on the pine table, with chalk, and employ- 
ed yellow and red grains of corn in place of pawns. 

They started at my entrance, and seeing who it was, 
threw themselves into my arms, in a transport of surprise and 
delight. After the first raptures of our meeting had passed, 
Mr. Hickman said to me — “ Well, my boy, thou hast come 
just in time. Godfrey Cartwright has just carried away 
letters for thee. He goes to town tomorrow, and I gave 
him a packet that has lain here for some time, to put into 
the office for thee.” 

“ A packet'? For me.^ From whom*?” 

“ When thou knowest the truth, thou wilt be apt to blame 
us a little, for our negligence ; but I will tell thee the whole 
affair, and thou shalt judge how far we are culpable. A 
week ago, I was searching the drawers in my cherry-tree 
desk, for the copy of a bond which old Duckworth had 
placed in my hands for safe keeping, when I lighted on a 
bulky packet, sealed up, and inscribed with thy name. I 
thought it strange, that a paper of that kind should be found 
in my possession, and looked at it again and again, before I 
could comprehend the mystery. At last I noticed in the 
corner, the words ‘ By Mr. Cartwright.’ Cartwright, thou 
knowest, is the man we employ to take and bring letters to and 
from the city. Hence, I supposed it to be a packet brought 
by him on some occasion, and left here for thee ; but by 
whom it was received, when it was brought, and how it 
should chance to repose in this drawer, I could not guess. I 
mentioned the affair to my sister, but she had no knowledge 
of the matter. At lengtli, after examining the packet and 
comparing circumstances, she gradually recollected its his- 
tory. 

“ ‘ Alack-a-day !’ cried she, ‘ I do remember something of 
it now. Cartwright brought it here, just the same evening of 
the very day that poor Philip left here and went to town. I 
remember I put it into that drawer, supposing that to be as 
good a place as any to keep it safe in, till we should hear 
from the lad, and have some inkling whereabouts to send it 
to him ; but, as I am a living soul, I forgot all about it from 
that day to this.’ 


o 


10 


CLARA HOWARD. 


‘‘ Such is the histoiy of your packet, which, you see, was 
mislaid through accident and . my sister’s bad memory.” 

This packet instantly connected itself, in my fancy, with 
the destiny of poor Mary. It came hither nearly at the 
time of her flight from Abingdon. It, no doubt, came from 
her, and contained information of unspeakable moment to 
our mutual happiness. When I reflected on the conse- 
quences of this negligence, I could scarcely restrain my im- 
patience. I eagerly inquired for the packet. 

“ Not a half-hour ago,” said Hickman, “ I delivered it 
to Cartwright, with directions to put it into the post-office for 
New York. He sets out early in the morning, so that thou 
wilt receive it on thy return to New York.” 

Cartwright lives five miles from this house. The least 
delay was intolerable ; and, my horse not being yet unsad- 
dled, I mounted him immediately, and set out, in spite of 
expostulation and entreaty. The night was remarkably 
gloomy and tempestuous, and I was already thoroughly 
fatigued ; but these considerations were forgotten. 

I arrived at Cartwright’s hovel, in less than an hour, and 
having gotten the packet, I returned with equal despatch. 
Immediately after, I retired to my chamber, and opened the 
packet, on which I instantly recognized the well known 
hand of Miss Wilmot. I will wave all comments, and send 
you the letter. 


To Philip Stanley. 


Abingto?*-. Nov. 11 . 

I need not tell you, my friend, what I have felt, in conse- 
quence of your silence. The short note which I received, a 
fortnight after you had left me, roused my curiosity and my 
fears, instead of allaying them. You promised me a longer 
account of some mysterious changes that had taken place in 
your condition. This I w as to receive in a few days. At 
the end of a week I was impatient. The promised letter did 
not arrive. Four w’eeks passed aw^ay, and notliingcame 
from you. 

Your packet has at last put an end to suspense ; but why 
did you not send it sooner ? Why not send me your story 


CLARA HOWARD. 


11 


piecemeal ; or, at least, tell me, in half a line, how yon were 
employed, and what occasioned your delay ^ Why did you 
not come yourself ? Philip, I am displeased ; I was going to 
say angry with you. You have sported witli my feelings. 
I ought to lay down my pen while I am in this humor. 
The pangs your negligence has given me, have not yet been 
soothed to rest, and when I find that so much unhappiness has 
been given through mere heedlessness, I can scarcely keep 
my patience. 

I was sitting on a bench in the garden, when a country 
lad entered the enclosure. As soon as I caught a glimpse 
of him, and observed that his attention was fixed upon me, 
and his right hand already in his pocket, my heart whisper- 
ed that he was the bearer of tidings from you. I attempted 
to rise and meet him, but my knees trembled so much, that 
I was obliged to give up my design. He drew forth his 
packet and threw it into my lap, answering, at the same 
time, my inquiries respecting you, by telling me that you 
were well, and that you had been busy, for a long time, 
night and day, in writing that there letter to me. He had 
stopt a moment to give it, and could not stay, but merely to 
receive three lines from me, informing you of my health. 

You do not deserve the favor. Besides, my fingers par- 
lake the fluttering of my heart. A tumult of joy and vexa- 
tion overpowers me. But, though you do not merit it, you 
shall have a few lines. This paper was spread upon my 
lap, and I had taken the pen to write to my aunt Bowles, 
but I will devote it to you, though my tremors, you see, 
will scarcely permit me to write legibly. 

Your messenger chides my lingering ; and I will let him 
go witli nothing but a verbal message, for, on second thoughts, 
I will defer writing till I have read your long letter. 

Nov. 15. 

Yes ; the narrative of Morton is true. The simple re- 
cital which you give, leaves me no doubt. The money is 
his, and shall be re.stored the moment he demands it. For 
what I have spent, I must a little while be his debtor. Tliis 
he must consent to lose, for I never can repay it. Indeed, 
it is not much. Since my change of fortune, I have not 
been extravagant. A hundred dollars is the most I have 


12 


CLARA HOWARD. 


laid out, and some of this has been in furniture, which t 
shall resign to him. 

Be under no concern, my friend, on my account. 
Think not how I shall endure the evils of my former con- 
dition, for I never shall return to it. Thy Mary is hastening 
to the grave with a very quick pace. That is her only 
refuge from humiliation and calamity, and to that she looks 
forward with more confidence than ever. 

I was not fashioned of stubborn materials. Poverty, 
contempt, and labor, are a burden too great for me. I 
know, that for these only am I reserved, and this interval of 
better prospects was no comfort to me. I always told you 
my brother had no just claim to this money, and that the 
rightful claimant would sooner or later appear. You were 
more sanguine, and were willing to incur, even on grounds 
so imperfect, the iri’evocable obligations of marriage. See 
into what a gulf your rashness would have hurried you, and 
rejoice that my obstinacy insisted on a delay of half a year. 

You know my motives for accepting, and on what con- 
ditions I accepted your proffered vows. I have never con- 
cealed from you my love. What my penetration easily 
perceived, your candor never strove to conceal. Your in- 
difference, your freedom from every thing like passion, was 
not only to be seen in your conduct, but was avowed by 
your lips. I was not so base as to accept your hand, with- 
out your heart. You talked of gratitude, and duty, and 
perfect esteem. 1 obtained, you told me, your entii'e rev- 
erence, and there was no female in the world whom you 
loved so much. It was true that you did not love me, but 
you preferred me to all other women. Union with me was 
your supreme desire. Your reason discerned and adored 
ray merits, and the concurrence of the heart could not but 
follow. 

Fondly devoted to you as I was, and urged as these ar- 
guments were, with pathetic eloquence, I could not be de- 
ceived for more than a moment. My heart was filled with 
contradictory emotions. I secretly upbraided you for ob- 
duracy in withholding your love, wliile I, at the same time, 
admired and loved you the more for your generosity. 
Your conduct rendered the sacrifice of my happiness to 
yours the more difficult, while it increased tlie necessity, 


CLARA HOWARD. 


13 


and enforced the jnstice of that sacrifice. I could not dis- 
cover the probability, that marriage would give birth to that 
love which previous tenderness and kindness had been una- 
ble to produce. I doubted not your fidelity, and that tlie 
consciousness of conferring happiness would secure your 
contentment; but I felt that diis was insufficient for my 
pride, if not for my love. 

I sought your happiness. To be the author of it was the 
object of inexpressible longings. To be happy without you 
was impossible ; but the misery of loneliness, however great, 
was less than that of being the spectator of your misery, or 
even that of defrauding you of the felicity attending mar- 
riage with a woman whom you could ti-uly love. Mean- 
while, our mutual poverty was itself an insurmountable bar 
to marriage. 

My brother’s deatli put me in seeming possession of com- 
petence. Circumstances were* now somewhat changed. 
If no claimant appeared, I should be able, by giving myself 
to you, to bestow upon the object of my love that good, the 
want of which nothing can compensate. There were no 
otlier means of rescuing your sisters and yourself from indi- 
gence and dependence. What I was willing to share with 
you, you would not share with me on any temis but those 
of wedlock. 

Too well did I see on what weak foundations was built 
this scheme of happiness. This property was never gained 
by my brother’s own industry, and how could I apply to m} 
own use what I could not doubt belonged to another, though 
that other should never appear to claim it at my hands. 

My reluctance was partly subdued by your urgency. I 
consented waveringly, and with a thousand misgivings, to be 
yours at the end of six months, if no one should appear, 
meantime, to make out a good title to this money. I listen- 
ed to your arguments and suppositions, by which you would 
fain account for my brother’s acquisition of so large a sum 
consistenly with honesty, and for his silence as to his pos- 
session of it. I was willing to be convinced, and consented 
to sacrifice my peace by marrying the man I loved, because 
this marriage would secure to him the competence wijich J 
could not enjoy alone. 


14 


CLARA HOWARD. 


Tins end cannot now be effected. New reasons have 
sprung up for foregoing your affection, even had Morton 
perished at sea. A friend has returned to you, who is far 
more able to relieve your poverty than I should be. It is 
easy to see on what conditions this relief is intended to be 
given. He has a daughter, whom he deems worthy of his 
adopted son. 

He knows your merit, and cannot fail of perceidng that 
it places you on a level with the most accomplished of 
human beings. 

I see how it is. This Clara will be yours. That intelli- 
gence, that mein, that gracefulness, which rustic obscurity 
cannot hide, which the garb of a clown could never dis- 
guise, accompanied with the ardent commendations of her 
father, will fascinate her in a moment. I cannot hesitate 
wdiat to wish, or how to act. That passion which a form, 
homely and uncouth like mine, tarnished and withered by 
drudgery and sorrow, and by comparative old age, for I am 
nine years older than you ; which a mind, void of educa- 
tion, and the refinements of learned and polished intercourse, 
was incapable of weakening, cannot fail to be excited by the 
youth and beauty, the varied accomplishments and ineffable 
graces of this stranger. She will offer you happiness, and 
wealth, and honor, and you will accept tliem at her hands. 

As for me, I cannot be yours, because I am not my ovm. 
-Vly resolution to be severed from you is unalterable ; but 
this is not necessary to insure our separation. It cannot 
take place, even if all my wishes -were in favor of it. Long 
before the expiration of the half year, I shall be removed 
beyond your reach. This is not the illusion of despair. I 
ieel in my deepest vitals, the progress of death. Nature 
(anguishes within me, and every hour accelerates my decay. 

My friend, thou must not parley with me ; thou must not 
afflict me with arguments or entreaties, by letters or visits. 

I must see thee, and hear from thee no more ; but I know 
ih}^ character too well to expect this from thee. As soon as 
thou receivest this letter, thou wilt hasten hither, and en- 
deavor to shake my purpose. 

I am not doubtful of my own constancy, but I would save 
myself and thee from a trial that will answer no end. I 
shall leave this place early tomorrow. Whither I am going 


aLARA HOWARD. 


15 


must never be told to thee. Thy pursuit and thy inquiries 
will be incessant and anxious, but the measures I have 
taken for eluding thy search will defeat all thy eiforts. I 
know that these assurances will not dissuade thee from 
making them, and I sorrow to reflect on the labors and 
anxieties to which thou wilt subject thyself for my sake ; but 
I shall derive consolation from the belief that my retreat 
will never he discovered. 

I inclose an order on the bank for the money that re- 
mains in it, drawn in favor of Morton, and an assignment to 
him of the few tables and chairs that furnish my lodgings 
here. These thou wilt faithfully deliver into his hands. I 
likewise return you your papers and letters. 

And now — Philip — ^best and most beloved of men ! — 
and is it come to this Must I bid thee farewell for ever 

Do not, I beseech thee, think hardly of me for what I 
have done. Nothing but a sense of duty, nothing but a su- 
preme regard to thy happiness, could suggest my design. 
I cannot falter in the execution, since I could not waver in 
the sense of my duty. I am ashamed of my weakness, 
that hinders me from pronouncing my last farewell. 

Make haste to forget the unhappy Mary ; make haste to 
the feet of your new fl-iend, and to secure that felicity 
which an untoward fate denied me the power of bestowing. 

My friend, my benefactor, farewell. 

Mary. 


LETTER III. 

To Clara Howard. 

Philadelphia, March 24. 

1 WRITE to you, in a mood not very well suited to the 
business. I am weary and impatient. The company which 
surrounds me is alien to my temper and my habits. I want 
to shut out the tokens of their existence — to forget where I 
nnj, and restore myself to those rapturous scenes and that 


16 


CLARA HOWARD. 


blissful period, which preceded my last inauspicious meet- 
ing with ]\lorton. 

I write to you, and yet I have nothing to say that will please 
you. My heart overflows with bitterness. I would pour it 
out upon you, and yet my equity will only add new keen- 
ness to my compunction, when I come to review what I 
have written. I am disposed to complain. I want an ob- 
ject to whom to impute my disasters, and to gratify my mal- 
ice by upbraiding. There is a kind of satisfaction in revenge 
that I want to taste. I want to shift my anxieties from my 
own shoulders to those of another who deserves the burden 
more than I. 

^ Your decision has made me unhappy. I believe youi’ 
decision absurd, yet I know your motives are disinterested 
and heroic. I know the misery which adherence to your 
schemes costs you. It is only less than my own. Why 
then should I aggravate that misery It is the system of 
nature tliat deserves my hatred and my curses — that system 
which makes our very virtues instrumental to our misery. 

But chiefly my own folly have 1 to deplore — that folly 
which made me intrust to you the story of Miss Wilmot, 
bofore the bonds had been formed wliich no after repent- 
ance could break. I ought to ha\'e forgotten her existence. 
I ought to have claimed your love and your hand. You 
would have bestowed them upon me, and my happiness 
would have been placed beyond the reach of caprice. 

What has wi’ought this change in my thoughts 9 I set 
out from Hatfield with a heart glowing witli zeal for the 
poor Mary. I burnt with impatience to throw myself at her 
feet, and tender her my vows. Tliis zeal, time has extin- 
guished. I call to mind the perfections of another. I 
compare them with those of the fugitive. My soul droops 
at the comparison, and my tongue would find it impossible 
to utter the vows, which my untoward fate may exact from 
me. 

Yet there is no alternative. I must finish the course that 
I have begun. I must conjure up impetuosity and zeal in this 
new cause. I must act and speak with the earnestness of 
sincerity, and the pathos of hope ; otherwise 1 shall betray 
my cause, and violate my duty. Alas ! it is vain to deny 
it, my powers are not equal to the task. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


17 

I have inquired at the house where Mrs. Vallentine form- 
erly lived. A new family ai’e tliere, and no intelligence of 
the former tenant can be gained from them. This lady has 
friends, no doubt, in the city ; but I know them not. It is 
chance alone that can give me their company. 

My efforts are languid, and my prospects dim. I shall 
stay here for as short a time as possible, and then proceed 
to Virginia. I will not rest till I have restored to Mary her 
own. This money shall be faithfully delivered. To add 
my heart to the gift is impossible. With less than my affec- 
tions she will never be satisfied, and they are no longer mine 
to bestow. 

Having performed this duty, what will remain for me. 
My future destiny it will be your province to prescribe. I 
.shall cease, however, to reason with you, or to persuade. 
Decide agreeably to your own conception of right, and se- 
cure to yourself happiness, even by allotting misery, banish- 
ment, or death, to Philip Stanley. 


LETTER IV. 

To Philip Stanley, 

New York, March 26 . 

If I thought the temper which dictated your last letter 
would continue beyond the hour or the night, I should in- 
deed be unhappy. 

My life has laiown much sorrow, but the sharpest pangs 
will be those arising from the sense of your unworthiness. 

In my eyes, marriage is no sensual or selfish bargain. I 
will never vow to honor' the man who deserves only my con- 
tempt ; and my esteem can be secured only by a just and 
disinterested conduct. Perhaps esteem is not the only re- 
quisite to marriage. Ofthatlamnot certain; but I know 
that it is an indispensable requisite to love. I cannot love any 
thing in you but excellence. Infatuation will render you 
hateful or pitiable in my eyes. I shall hasten to forget you, 
and for that end shall estrange myself from your society, and 
drop your correspondence. 


•18 


CLARA HOWARD. 


You know what it is that reason prescribes to you with re- 
gard to Miss Wilmot. If you cannot ardently and sincerely 
seek her presence, and find, in the happiness which she will 
derive from a union with you, sufficient motives to make 
you zealously solicit that union, you are unworthy not merely 
of my love, but of my esteem. Henceforth I will know you 
not. 

Let me not have reason to charge you with hypocrisy, or 
to consider your love for me as the mere child of sensuality 
and selfishness. You have often told me that you desire my 
happiness above all things — that you love me for my own 
sake. Your sincerity and rectitude are now put to the test. 
Do not belie your professions, by a blind and unjust de- 
cision. Allow me to judge in what it is that my happiness 
consists, and prove your attachment to me by promoting my 
happiness. 

Misguided friend ! What is it you want 9 To gain your 
end by exciting my pity 9 Suppose the end should be thus 
accomplished ; suppose I should become your wife, merely 
to save your life, to prevent hazards and temptations to which 
my rejection might expose you. Mournful, indeed, full of 
anguish and of tears, would be the day which should make 
me your bride. My act would be a mere submission to 
humiliating and painful necessity. I should look to reap from 
such an alliance, nothing but repinings and sorrows By 
soliciting my hand, by consenting to ratify a contract made 
on such principles, you would irretrievably forfeit my esteem. 
My condition would be the most disastrous that can betide a 
human being. I should be bound, beyond the power of 
loosening my bonds, to one whom I despised. 

I am, indeed, in no danger of acting upon these principles. 
I shall never so little consult my own dignity and yours, as to 
accept your hand through compassion. I am not unacquainted 
with the schemes which your foolish despondency has sug- 
gested to you. I know very well what alternatives you have 
sometimes resolved to offer me ; of compliance with your 
wishes, or of banishing you to the desert, and dissolving that 
connexion between my father and you, which is so advanta- 
geous to yourself and your sisters. Fie upon you ! Even to 
have entertained such thoughts fixes a stain upon your charac- 
ter not easily effaced. Nothing but the hope that the illusion 


CLARA HOWARD. 


19 

is transitory, and that sober reflection will, in a short time, 
relieve you from the yoke of such cowardly and ignoble de- 
signs, prevents this from being the last token of friendship 
you will ever receive fi-om Clara Howard. 


LETTER V. 

To Miss Hoivard, 

Philadelphia, March 28 , 

Clara, thou hast conquered me, I see the folly of my 
last letter, and deplore it. It, indeed, merited the indigna- 
tion and the scorn which it has received. Never shall you 
again be grieved and provoked by the like folly. I am now 
master of my actions and my thoughts, and will steadily 
direct them to a single purpose, the pursuit of the poor Mary, 
and the promotion of her happiness. 

How inconsistent and capricious is man ! Today, his 
resolutions and motives are as adverse to those of yesterday, 
as those of one man can be, at any time and in any situation, 
to those of another. Yesterday ! Heaven preserve me from 
a repetition of the same thoughts ! I shudder on looking 
back upon the gulf, on the brink of which I was tottering. 
How could I so utterly forget my own interest ; the regard 
due to the woman who truly loves me ; to my sisters and 
my noble friend 7 

But the humiliation is now past. I think it is ; I am sure 
it is. I am serene, resolute, and happy. The remorse my 
errors have produced is now at an end. Better thoughts, 
resolutions worthy of your pupil and your friend have suc- 
ceeded. Not that my past feelings have been, perhaps, 
quite as culpable as you describe them. My repinings were 
drawn from fallacious sources, but they were not wholly 
selfish. I imagined you loved me ; that my alliance with 
another, however sanctioned by your judgment, would pro- 
duce some regret. Believing your judgment misinformed, 
believing these regrets to be needless, I was not willing to 
create tliem. I need not say that this was all my reluctance. 
That would be false ; but as they partly originated hence. 


20 


CLARA HOWARD. 


my feelings were not wholly selfish ; and if I may judge of 
my own emotions, surely you wrong me in calling my pas- 
sion by the odious name of sensual. 

But these things are past. You have not done me jus- 
tice ; and in return, I have imputed to you feelings, of which 
you knew nothing. Henceforth, my conduct shall convince 
you that I cannot stoop to solicit that boon from your pity, 
which is refused by your love. Conjugal claims and enjoy- 
ments are mutual. The happiness received is always pro- 
portioned to that conferred. A wretch, worthy of eternal 
abhorrence, must he be, and endowed with tygerlike ferocity, 
who seeks and is contented with \he person, while the heart 
is averse or indifferent. Such a one, believe me, Clara, am 
not I. 

On Tuesday, I expect to despatch all my concerns in this 
city, and to proceed southward. Adieu, 

Philip Stanley. 


LETTER VI. 

To Philip Stanley. 

New York, April. 1. 

There is an obscurity in your letter, my friend, that I 
cannot dispel. The first part afforded me much pleasure, 
but the sequel disappointed me. You seem to have strangely 
misconstrued my meaning. Whether this misconsti’uction 
be real or pretended, it does not become me to enter into 
any explanation. If it be real, it affords a proof of a narrow 
and ungenerous heart, a heart incapable of perceiving the 
possibility of sacrificing its own personal gratification to that 
of another, and of deriving, from that very sacrifice, a purer 
and more lasting felicity. It shews you unable to compre- 
hend that the welfare of another may demand seffdenial from 
us, and that in bestowing benefits on others, tliere is a purer 
delight than in gratifications merely selfish and exclusive. 

You question my love, because 1 exhort you to do your 
duty, and to make another happy that is wordiier than I. 
Why am 1 anxious for that other and for you Why should 


CLARA HOWARD. 


21 

I rejoice in your integrity, and mourn for your degradation 9 
Why should I harbor such glowing images of the bliss which 
your Mary would derive from a union with you*? Would 
not my indifference and negligence on these heads, would 
not my ardor to appropriate your affections to myself, prove 
me to be — there is no name sufficiently abhorrent and con- 
temptuous for such a heart. 

And yet, such is the deportment you expect from me ! 
Any thing but this will prove me to be indifferent, or averse 
to you ! Desist, I beseech you, in time. If you proceed 
thus, quickly wall you lose what remains of that esteem which 
I once felt for you. Instead of earnestly promoting your 
alliance with Miss Wilmot, I shall anxiously obstruct it, on 
account of your unworthiness. 

If this misconstruction be pretended only, if you mean to 
assail, by this new expedient, my imaginary weakness ; if you 
imagine, that in order to remove an unjust imputation from 
my character, I will do what will make me really culpable ; 
if you imagine that I shall degrade myself in my own estima- 
tion, merely for the purpose of raising myself in yours, you 
have grossly deceived yourself. 

Foimerly you talked, with much self-complacency, of the 
trials to which I had subjected my fortitude, and consoled, 
yourself with thinking that adhering to my new scheme was 
productive of misery. I say, that you consoled yourself with 
this reflection. In your eyes, my character was estimable 
in proportion to the reluctance with which I performed w hat 
was just. Your devotion to me was fervent in proportion 
as the performance of my duty was attended with anguish 
and suffering! 

Philip, are you, indeed, so sordid as to reason in this man- 
ner*? Are you so blind a^ to account this the surest road to 
my esteem *? Are you not ashamed of your infatuation and 
absurdity *? 

I need not disguise or deny my unhappiness from any pity 
to you, or through the value which I set on your esteem. 
You exult in proportion to my misery. You revere me in 
proportion as my sentiments are mean and selfish ! lam 
to be upbraided and despised, in proportion to the fulness of 
that enjoyment, wdiich the approbation of my conscience, the 
3 


2 ^ 


CLARA HOWARD. 


sense of doing right myself, and of conferring good on otliers, 
has given me ! 

Let me constantly hear from you, respecting your move- 
ments. I am in hopes that time and reflection will instil 
into you better principles. Till then, I shall not be displeased, 
if your letter be confined to a mere narrative of your 
journey. Adieu, Clara Howard. 


LETTER VI 1. 

To Philip Stanley. 

New York, April 5. 

You were to leave Philadelphia on Tuesday, you told me. 
I imagined tlie interval would be engrossed with business, 
and therefore expected not to hear from you, till after that 
day; but that day, and the whole week is past, and no 
tidings. 

This silence does not proceed from sullenness — I hope, I 
persuade myselfit does not. Whatever anger you conceived 
against me, let not that, I entreat you, make you ungrateful 
to my father, cruel to your sisters, unjust to yourself. 

Letters have been hourly expected from you, relative to 
concerns which you had in charge. Have you neglected 
them ^ Have you betrayed your trust 9 Have you suffered 
an unmanly dejection to unfit you for this charge 9 Have 
you committed any rashness 9 

Heaven forbid ! Yet, what but some fatal event has 
occasioned this delay ! Perhaps, while I thus write to you, 
you are — 

Let me not think of it. I shiver with a deadly cold at the 
thought. Thou art fiery and impetuous, my friend. Thy 
spirit is not curbed by reason. There is no outrage on discre- 
tion — no crime against thyself, into which thy headlong 
spirit may not hurry thee. 

Perhaps, my last letter was harsh, unjust. My cen- 
sures were too bitter. I made not suitable allowances for 
your youth — ^the force of that attachment which you own for 
me. Knew I so little of my own nature, and the illusions 


CLARA HOWARD. 


•23 


of passion, as to expect you to act and speak with perfect 
wisdom 

Would to Heaven 1 had not written that letter, or that I 
had sufficiently considered its contents before I sent it. It 
was scribbled hastily, in a moment of resentment. Of that 
which I so hastily censured in you, I was guilty myself. 
I ought to have staid till cool reflection had succeeded. 

But, perhaps, we torment ourselves needlessly. It is 
said, that the late storms have overflowed the rivers, swept 
away the bridges, and flooded the roads. Perhaps your 
letters are delayed from this cause. Perhaps the ways have 
been impassable. 

Mr. Talbot has been abroad during the morning. We 
expect him to return presently. He may bring us letters. 
********** 

No intelligence yet received ! I am excessively uneasy. 
Your friend is displeased. He is almost ready to repent 
the confidence he has placed in you. Nothing can justify 
your silence. Your sickness should not hinder you from 
informing him of certain transactions. Their importance 
required you to give him early notice of any disaster that 
might befall you, and common produce would enjoin you to 
take measures for conveying this intelligence by the hands 
of others, in case of your incapacity. 

The coming of the post has been interrupted only for one 
day. The reason why we have not heard from you, can 
only be your not having written. My thoughts are too much 
disturbed to permit me to write any more. I will lay down 
the pen and despatch this ; perhaps it may find you, and 
produce some effect. 

Clara Howard. 


LETTER VIIL 

To Miss Howard. 

SCHUYliKILL, ApRII. 10. 

1 WHITE to you by the hand of another. Be not greatly 
^uiprised or alarmed. Perhaps my strength is equal to tlie 


24 


CLARA HOWARD. 


peiformance of this duty for myself; but my good friend, 
and affectionate nurse, Mrs. Aston, insists upon guiding the 
pcii for me. She sits by my side, and promises to write 
whatever I dictate. 

My theme is of an interesting and affecting nature. 
Perhaps it might appear to you improper to employ any 
hand but my own. Cii’cumstances must apologize for me. 

1 cannot hold the pen ; the friend, whose hand I employ, 
deserves my affection and gratitude. On her discretion 1 
can rely. Besides, I am now approaching a bourne where 
our scruples and reserves usually disappear. The suggest- 
ions of self interest, and the calculations of the future are 
sure to vanish at the approach of d^ath. 

Wlien I wrote you last, I told you my intention to leave 
the city on Tuesday. I afterwards received your letter. 
Your censure was far more severe than my conscience told 
me 1 deserved. But my own heart did not secure me from 
regret. I was highly culpable to allow my peace to be 
molested by the tenor of your letter. In different circum- 
stances, I should certainly conceal from you its effect upon 
iny feelings. I intended to have concealed them from you. 

\ perceived that, with respect to you, 1 was thenceforth to 
regard myself as a stranger and an outcast, and resolved 
that you should see me and hear from me no more. 

In embracing this scheme, I found no tranquillity. Clara, 

I loved you, and that love led me to place my supreme 
happiness in the possession of your heart. For this you call 
me sensual and selfish. This at least convinced me of one 
thing — that the happiness which I formed to myself is beyond 
my reach ! It behoved me, doubtless, to dismiss all fruitless 
repinings, as well as to forbear all unprofitable efforts. My 
courage was equal to the last, but not to the first. Though 
the confession will degrade me still lower in your opinion, it 
is now no time to prevaricate or counterfeit ; and I will not 
Ihde from you my anguish and dejection. These did not 
unfit me for performing my duty to your father, but they 
banished health and repose from my pillow. 

I set out on Tuesday morning, for Baltimore. The usual 
floods of this season having carried away the bridge on the 
Schuylkill, we prepared to pass it in a boat. The horses 
which drew the stage being unaccustomed to this mode of* 


CLARA HOWARD. 


25 


conveyance, and being startled by the whirlpools and eddies, 
took fright, when the boat had gained the middle of the river, 
and suddenly rushed out at the further end into the stream. 

All the passengers, except two females, had dismounted 
from the carriage before it entered the boat. The air was 
extremely cold, and a drizzling shower was falling. These 
circumstances induced the father of the two girls, who was 
one of our company, to dissuade them from alighting, as he 
imagined no danger would arise during the passage. Hap- 
pily the passengers and boatmen were behind the carriage ; 
so that, in rushing forward, the horses drew nothing after 
them but the coach and those in it. 

The coach and horses instantly sunk. The curtams, on 
all sides, had been lowered and fastened ; but the rushing 
waters burst the fastenings, and by a miraculous chance, the 
two females, who sat on one seat behind, were extricated in 
a moment from the poles and curtains. The coach sunk to 
the bottom, but the girls presently rose to the surface. 

I threw off my upper and under coat in a moment, and 
watching the place of their reappearance, plunged into the 
water, and by the assistance of others, lifted one breathless 
corpse into the boat. Meanwhile, the father, more terrified, 
and less prudent, threw himself cloaked and encumbered as 
he was, into the water, to save his children. Instead of 
effecting this, he was unable to save himself. No one fol- 
lowed my example in plunging into the river, and the father 
and one of his children perished together. 

The immediate consequence of this exposure, in a fever- 
ish state of my frame, was a violent ague, which gave place 
to a high fever and delirium. I stopt at the inn on the op- 
posite bank, to change my wet clothes for dry ; but, having 
done this, was unable to proceed, and betook myself to my 
bed. I suspected nothing more than an intermittent, which, 
however violent during its prevalence, would pass away in 
less than an hour. In this I was mistaken. 

My understanding was greatly disturbed. I had no re- 
membrance of the past, or foresight of the future. All was 
painful confusion, which has but lately disappeared. Clear 
conceptions have returned to me, but my strength is gone, 
and I feel the cold of death gradually gaining on my heart. 
My force of mind is not lessened. I can talk and reason as 


26 


CLARA HOWARD. 


coherently as ever ; and my conclusions ar^ far more wise 
than while in perfect health. 

The family of Mr. Aston, residing in this neighborhood, 
hearing of my condition, have afforded me every succor and 
comfort I needed. It was not till this moment that I have 
been able to employ the suitable means of conveying to you 
tidings of these events. Your letter has just been brought 
me from the post-office, and my good friend, who now holds 
the pen, and who has watched by my pillow during my sick- 
ness, was good enough to read it to me. 

What shall I say ^ To one regarding me as selfish and 
unjust ; as even capable of villany and foul ingratitude ; who 
among so many conjectures, as to the cause of my silence, 
was ready to suspect me of breach of faith, the low guilt of 
embezzlement ! what shall I say 

Nothing ; I can say nothing. The prayers of a dying 
man for thy felicity, Clara, will, at least, be accepted as sin- 
cere. There is no personal motive to vitiate this prayer. 
Thy happiness must, henceforth, be independent of mine. I 
can neither be the author nor pai1;aker of it. Be thou, lovely 
and excellent woman ! he happy ! 

I break off here, to write to your father. I have much ta 
say to him which another day, perhaps another hour, may 
for ever prevent me from saying. Philip Stanley. 


LETTER IX. 

' To Philip Stanley. 

New York, April 12. 

My father carries you this. The merciful God grant that 
he may find you alive ! Philip, is it impossible for you to 
forgive me 9 But I deserve it not. I have lost you for ever ! 
My wickedness and folly merited no less. 

My father smiles, and says tliere is hope. He vows to 
find you out ; to restore you to health, to bring you back to 
us alive and happy. 

Good God ! what horrible infatuation was it that made me 
write as I did ! If thou d-est, just — just will be my punishment. 
Never more will I open my eyes to the light. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


27 

My father, my mother, will not suffer me to go to thee — 
to see thee once more ; to receive thy last sigh ; to clasp thy 
cold remains ; to find my everlasting peace in the same 
grave. They will not hearken to me ; they will not suffer 
me to go. 

In my frantic thoughts, I ran to the water’s edge. I was 
stepping into the boat to cross the river, determined to see 
thee ere a new day returned, but I was pursued. I am de- 
tained by force ; by entreaties more powerful than bonds and 
fetters. 

I need not go. Thou art gone for ever. My prayer for 
forgiveness thou canst not hear. Heaven has denied me 
the power to repair tlie wrongs that I have done thee. To 
expiate my folly, to call thee back to my bosom, and to give 
my stubborn heart to thy possession, cannot be for the 
wretched Clara Howard. 


LETTER X. 

To Mrs. Howard. 

Philadelphia, April 14. 

I HAVE been here thirty hours, and have not written to 
you. I know your impatience, and that of your girl ; but, 
till this hour, I was unable to give you information that 
would relieve your fears. Philip was, indeed, ill. I found 
him in a state wholly desperate. He had not strength to 
lift his eye-lids at my approach, or to articulate a welcome. 

I found in his chamber his nurse and his physician. The 
former is a young lady, newly married, who resides in this 
neighborhood, and a sister of the person whom our pupil 
saved from drowning. She has paid him the kindest and 
most anxious attention. 

Let me hasten to tell you that the crisis has passed, and 
terminated favorably. A profound sleep of ten hours has 
left him free from pain and fever, though in a state of weak- 
ness which could not be carried beyond its present degree 
without death. 

Set your hearts at rest. The lad is safe. I promised to 
bring him back alive and well, and will certainly fulfil my 


CLARA HOWARD. 


28 

promise ; but some weeks must elapse before he will be fit 
for the journey. You must wait with patience till then. 
Farewell. Yours, very sincerely, E. Howard. 


LETTER XL 
To Philip Stanley. 

New York, April. 15. 

To describe the agony which my father’s silence pro- 
duced, both to my mother and myself, would be useless. 
Thanks to my God, you art out of danger. 1 can now 
breatlie with freedom. 

Tell me, beloved Philip, by your own hand, or, if your 
weakness will not suffer it, by that of your friend, that 
you forgive me. Oh that I were not at this unfriend- 
ly distance from you ! that I could pour out the tears of 
my remorse, of my gratitude, of my love, upon your hand ! I 
am jealous of your lovely nurse ; she is performing tliose 
functions which belong to me. 

You are grateful for her services, are you not 9 Not more 
so than I am. Give her my fervent thanks — but stay, I 
will give them myself. I will write to her immediately, tell 
her of the obligations she had laid upon me, and solicit 
her friendship. She is an angel, 1 am sure. 

Prithee, my friend, make haste and be well, and fly to us. 
Tlie arms of thy Clara are open to receive thee. She is 
ready to kneel to thee for pardon ; to expiate her former ob- 
duracy by tears of gratitude and tenderness. Lay on my 
past offences what penalty thou wilt ; the heavier it be, the 
more cheerfully shall I sustain it ; the more adequate it wiD 
be to my fault. 

Mary — my heart droops when 1 think of her. How im- 
perfect are schemes of human felicity ! May heaven assist 
me in driving from my mind the secret conviction, that her 
claim to your affection is stiD valid. 

Alas ! how fleeting is our confidence ! Come to me, my 
friend. Exert all thy persuasive eloquence. Convince me 
that I have erred in resigning thy heart and hand to another ; 
in imagining the claim of Mary better than mine. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


29 

I call upon thy efforts to rescue me from self-condemna- 
tion ; but f call on thee without hope. My reason cannot be 
deceived. The sense of the injustice! have done her, will 
poison every enjoyment which a union with thee can afford me. 

Yet come. I repent not of my invitation. 1 retract not 
my promise. Make me irrevocably thine. I shaU at least 
be happy while I forget her, and I will labor to forget her. 
Adieu. Yours, Clara Howard. 


LETTER XII. 

To Miss Howard. 

Philadelphia, April 23 . 

When you know my reason for not accompanying your 
father, you will approve of my conduct. I am once more 
in health, but could not, at this season, perform the journey 
without hazard. Meanwhile, some ^airs remain to be 
transacted in this city, to which my strength is fully equal ; 
and tile assui'ance of your love has luUed all my cares to 
repose. 

In less than a week I will be with you. Rely upon my 
power to convince you that your present decision is just. If 
1 had doubts of its rectitude, your offer, transporting as it is, 
would never be accepted. 

How little did you comprehend my character, in believing 
me capable of urging you to the commission of what I 
deemed wrong ! And think you that even now I will accept 
your hand, unattended with the fullest concurrence of your 
reason 9 No ; but 1 doubt not to obtain that concurrence. 
I will fly to you on the wings of transport, and armed with 
reasons which shall fully remove your scruples. 

These reasons, as well as a thousand affecting incidents, 
which have lately befallen me, I will reseiwe for our meet- 
ing. Meanwhile, place the enclosed portrait in your bosom. 
It is that of my nurscj Mrs. Aston. She sends it to you, 
and desires me to tell you that she has received your letter, 
and will answer it very shortly. Adieu. Yours, 

Philip Stanley, 

P, S. I stay at No. — , Nortlj Eighth Street. 


30 


CLARA HOWARD. 


LETTER XIIL 
To Francis Harris, 

Philadelphia, April, 23. 

Do you wish for some account of my present situation 9 
1 will readily comply with your request. I am, indeed, in 
a mood, just now, extremely favorable to the telling of a 
long story. I have no companions in this city, and various 
circumstances, while tliey give me a few days solitude and 
leisure, strongly incline me likewise to ruminate and moral- 
ize on past adventures. 

When I last wrote to you, I told you my destiny had un- 
dergone surprising changes since we parted. I had then no 
leisure to enter into minute particulars. Alas ! my friend, 
changes still more surprising have since occurred, but 
changes very different from those to which I then alluded. 
Then they were all benign and joyous ; since, they have 
been only gloomy and disastrous. 

But how far must I go back to render my narrative intel- 
ligible 9 You went your voyage, if I mistake not, just after 
I was settled, with my uncle and sisters, in the neighborhood 
of Hatfield. I believe you were acquainted with the be- 
ginning, at least of my intercourse with Mr. Howard, I 
described to you, I believe, the dignified, grave and secluded 
deportment of that man ; the little relish he appeared to 
have for tlie society around, and the flattering regards he 
bestowed on me. 

I was a mere country lad, with little education but what 
was gained by myself ; diffident and bashful as the rawest 
inexperience could make me. He was a man of elevated 
and sedate demeanor ; living, if not with splendor, yet with 
elegance ; withdrawing, in a great degree, from the society 
of his neighbors ; immersed in books and papers, and wholly 
given to study and contemplation. 

I shall never forget the occasion on which he first honored 
me whh liis notice ; the unspeakable delight which his 
increasing familiarity and confidence, my admission to his 
house, and my partaking of his conversation and instructions, 
afforded me. I recollect the gradual disappearance, in his 


OLARA HOWARD. 


31 

intercourse with me, of that reserve and austerity, which he 
still maintained to the rest of mankind, with emotions of 
gratitude and pleasure unutterable. 

He had reason to regard me, indeed, somewhat like his 
own son. I had no father ; I had no property ; there was 
no one among my own relations, who had any particular 
claim upon my reverence or affection. A thousand tokens 
in my demeanor, must have manifested a veneration for him 
next to idolatry. My temper was ardent and impetuous, 
and several little incidents occurred, during the many years 
that I frequented his house, that brought forth striking proofs 
of my attachment to him. I greedily swallowed his lessons, 
and remember how often his eyes sparkled, his countenance 
brightened into smiles, and his tongue lavished applause, on 
my wonderful docility and rapid progress. He shewed his 
auction for me, by giving his instructions, inquiring into my 
situation, and directing me in every case of difficulty that 
occurred ; but he never offered to become my real father ; 
to be at the expense of my subsistence, or my education to 
any liberal profession. Indeed, he was anxious to persuade 
me that the farmer’s life was the life of true dignity, and that, 
however desirable to me property might be, I ought to 
entertain no wish to change my mode of life. That was a 
lesson which he was extremely assiduous to teach. 

He never gave me money, nor ever suffered the slightest 
hint to escape him that he designed to carry his munificence 
any farther than to lend me his company, his conversation, 
and his books. Indeed, in my attachment to him, there 
was nothing sordid or mercenary. It never occurred to 
me to reflect on this frugality, this limitation of his bounty. 
What he gave was, in my own eyes, infinitely beyond my 
merits ; and instead of panting after more, I was only aston- 
ished that he gave me so much. Indeed, had I had wisdom 
enough to judge of appearances, I should have naturally 
supposed that there existed many others who had stronger 
claims upon his fortune than I had, and might actually enjoy 
his bounty. 

His family and situation were, indeed, wholly unknown 
to me and his neighbors. He was a native of Britain ; had 
not been long in America ; lived alone, and in affluence ; 
was a man past the middle of life ; enjoyed a calm, studious, 


CLARA HOWARD. 


32 

and contemplative existence. This was the sum of all the 
knowledge I ever obtained of him. Indeed, my curiosity 
never carried me into stratagems or guesses, in order to dis- 
cover what he did not voluntarily disclose, or what he was 
desirous to conceal. 

The mournful day of his departure from Hatfield, and 
from America, at last arrived. I never was taught to believe 
that he designed to pass his life in America. 1 naturally 
regarded him as merely a sojourner, but never inquired 
how long he meant to stay among us. When he told me, 
therefore, tliat he should embark in a week, 1 felt no sur- 
prise, though it was impossible to conceal my impatience 
and regret. I never felt a keener pang than his last embrace 
gave me. 

He parted from me with every mark of paternal tender- 
nsss. Yet he left nothing behind him as a memorial of bis 
affection. Even the books that I had often read under his 
roof, some of which were my chief favorites, and would 
have been prized, for the donor’s sake, beyond their weight 
in rubies, he carried away with him. Neither did he 
explain the causes of his voyage, or give me any expecta- 
tion of seeing him again. 

My obligations to Mr. Howard cannot be measured. To 
him am I indebted for whatever distinguishes me from the 
stone which I turned up with my plough, or the stock which 
1 dissevered with my axe. My understanding was awakened, 
disciplined, informed ; my affections were cherished, exer- 
cised, and regulated by him. My heart was penetrated 
with a sentiment, in regard to him — perhaps it would be 
impious to call it devotion — the divinity only can claim that ; 
yet this man was a sort of divinity to me — the substitute 
and representative of heaven, in my eyes, and for my good. 

I besought him to let me accompany him. I anxiously 
inquired whether I might cherish the hope of ever seeing 
him again ^ The first request he made me ashamed of 
ever ha\ing urged, by shewing me that 1 had sisters who 
needed my protection, and for whose sake 1 ought to labor 
to attain independence. His own destiny would be regu- 
lated by future events, but he deemed it most probable that 
we should never see each other more. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


m 

The melancholy inspired by this separation from one who 
was not only my best, but my sole friend, was not dissipated 
like other afflictions of youth, by the lapse of a few montlis. 
Being accompanied with absolute uncertainty as to his con- 
dition and place of residence, it produced the same effect 
that his death would have done. This melancholy, though 
no variety of scene could have effaced it, was, no doubt, 
aggravated by the cheerless solitude in which I was placed. 
The rustic life was wholly unsuitable to my temper and 
taste. My active mind panted for a nobler and wider 
sphere of action ; and after enduring the inconveniences of 
my sequestered situation for some time, I, at length, bound 
myself apprentice to a watchmaker in the city. My genius 
was always turned towards mechanics, and I could imagine 
no art more respectable or profitable dian this. 

Shortly after my removal to this city, I became acquaint- 
ed with a young man by the name of Wilmot. There were 
many points of resemblance between us. We were equally 
fond of study and reflection, and the same literary pursuits 
happened to engage our passions. Hence a cordial and 
incessant intercourse took place between us. 

I suppose you know nothing of Wilmot. Yet possibly 
you have heard something of the family. They were of 
no small note in Delaware. Not natives of the country. 
The father was an emigrant, who brought a daughter and 
tin’s son with him, when children, from Europe. He pur- 
chased a delightful place on the Brandyvnne, built a house, 
laid out gardens, and passed a merry life among horses, dogs, 
and boon companions. He died, at length, by a fall from 
his horse, when his daughter Mary was sixteen years of age, 
and the son four or five years younger. 

These children had been trained up in the most luxurious 
manner. The girl had been her own mistress, and the 
mistress. of her father’s purse, from a very early age. All 
the prejudices and expectations of an heiress were early and 
deeply imbibed by her; and her father’s character had 
hindered her from forming any affectionate or useful friends 
of her own sex, while those who called themselves his friends 
were either merely jovial companions or cunning creditors. 
It very soon appeared that Wilmot’s fortune had lasted just 
as long as his life. House, and land, and stock, were sold bv 
4 


CLARA HOWARD. 


auction, to discharge his numerous debts, and nothing but a 
surplus on the sale of the furniture remained to the heirs. 

Mary, after a recluse and affluent education, was thus 
left, at the inexperienced age of sixteen, friendless and for- 
lorn, to find the means of subsistence for herself and her 
brother, in her own ingenuity and industry. It cannot be 
supposed that she escaped all the obvious and enervating 
effects of such an education. Her pride was sorely wounded 
by this reverse, but nature had furnished her with a vigorous 
mind, which made it impossible for her to sink, either into 
meanness or despair. She was not wise enough to endure 
poverty and straitened accommodations, and a toilsome 
calling, with serenity; but she was strenuous enough to adopt 
the best means for repairing the ills diat oppressed her. 

She retired, witli the wreck of her father’s property, from 
the scene in which she had been accustomed to appear with 
a splendor no longer hers. Her sensibility found consola- 
tion in living obscure and unknown. For this end, she 
removed to this city, took cheap lodgings in the suburbs, 
and reduced all her expenses to the most frugal standard. 
With the money she brought with her, she placed her brother 
at a reputable grammar school ; and her acquaintance, by 
very slow degrees, extending beyond her own roof among 
the good and considerate pail of the community, she acquired, 
by the exercise of the needle, a slender provision for herself 
and her brother. 

Tlie boy was a noble and generous spirit, and endowed with 
an ardent thirst of knowledge. He made a rapid progress 
in his learning, and at the age of sixteen, became usher in the 
school in which he had been ti’ained. He was smitten with 
tlie charms of literature ; and greatly to his sister’s disap- 
pointment and vexation, refused to engage in any of those 
professions which lead to riches and honor. He adopted 
certain antiquated and unfashionable notions about the “ gran- 
deur of retreat,” “honorable poverty,” a studious life, and 
the dignity of imparting knowledge to others. The desk, bar, 
and pulpit, had no attractions for him. This, no doubt, partly 
arose from youthful timidity and self diffidence, and age might 
have insensibly changed his views. 

My intercourse with Wilmot introduced me, of course, to 
the knowledge of his sister. I usually met him at her lodg- 


CLARA HOWARD. 


35 


ings. Sundays and aU our evenings were spent together ; 
and as Mary had few or no visitants, on her own account, 
she was nearly on the same footing of domestic familiarity 
with me, as with her brother. 

She was much older than I. Humiliation and anxiety 
had deeply preyed on her constitution, which had never been 
florid or robust, and made still less that small portion of 
external grace or beauty, which nature had conferred upon 
her. Dignity, however, was conspicuous in her deportment, 
and intelligence glowed in her delicate and pliant features. 
Her manners were extremely mild, her voice soft and musical, 
and her conversation full of originality and wisdom. The 
high place to which she admitted me in her esteem, and the 
pleasure she took in my company, demanded my esteem and 
gratitude in return. In a short time, she took place of her 
brother in my confidence and veneration. 

I never loved Mary Wilmot. Disparity of age, the dignity 
and sedateness of her carriage, and perhaps the want of per- 
sonal attractions, inspired me with a sentiment very different 
from love. Yet there w'as no sacrifice of inclination which I 
would not cheerfully have made, in the cause of her happi- 
ness. Though union with her could not give me the raptures 
tliat fortunate love is said to produce, it was impossible to 
find them with another while she was miserable. 

I had no experience of the passions. I knew, and con- 
versed with no woman but ^lary, and imagined that no 
human being possessed equal excellences. I liad no counter 
longing to contend with ; and, to say truth, did not suspect 
that my regard for any woman, could possibly be carried fur- 
ther than what I felt for her. 

Mary’s knowledge of the heart, tiie persuasion of her 
own defects, or her refined conception of the passions, made 
her less sanguine and impetuous. Her love was to be indis- 
putably requited by a love as fervent, before she would permit 
herself to indulge in hopes of felicity, or allow me to esteem, 
in her, my future wife. Our mutual situation by no means 
justified marriage. Secure and regular means of subsistence 
were wanting, as I had, somewhat indiscreetly, bound myself 
to serve a parsimonious master, for a much longer period 
than was requisite to make me a proficient in my art. 


36 


CLARA HOWARD. 


IVIeanwhile, there subsisted between us the most affection- 
ate and cordial intercourse, such as was worthy of her love, 
and my boundless esteem. 

As long as the possibility of marriage was distant, this 
discord of feelings was of less moment. A very great 
misfortune, however, seemed to have brought it, for a time, 
very near. Wilmot embarked on the river, in an evil hour, 
and the boat being upset by a gust of wind, was drowned. 
The brother and sister tenderly loved each other, and this 
calamity was long and deeply deplored by the survivor. 
One unexpected good, however, grew out of this event. 
Wilmot was found to be credited in the bank of P. for so 
large a sum as five thousand dollars. 

You will judge of the surprise produced by such a dis- 
covery, when I tell you that this credit appeared to have 
been given above two years before Wilmot’s death ; that we, 
his constant and intimate associates, had never heard the 
slightest intimation of his possessing any thing beyond the 
scanty income of his school ; that his expenses continued, 
till the day of his death, perfectly conformable to the known 
amount of this wi’etched income ; and that no documents 
could be found among his papers, throwing any light on the 
mystery. 

I shdl not recount the ten thousand fruitless conjectures 
that were formed to account for this circumstance. None 
was more probable than tliat Wilmot held tliis money for 
another. Mary was particularly confident of the truth of 
this conclusion, though to me it was not unembarrassed with 
difficulties, for why was no written evidence, no memoran- 
dum or letter, to be found respecting the trust F and why did 
he maintain so obstinate a silence on the subject to us, to 
whom he was accustomed to communicate every action and 
every thought 

We endeavored to recollect Wilmot’s conversation and 
deportment, at the time this money was deposited by him, 
in his own name, in the bank. This clue seemed to lead to 
some discovery. I well remembered a thoughtfulness, at that 
period, not usual in my friend, and a certain conversation, 
that took place between us, on the propriety of living on tlie 
bounty of others, when able to maintain ourselves by our own 
industry. I short, I was extremely v^illing to copclude that 


CLARA HOWARD. 


37 


this money had been a present to Wilmot, from some paternal 
friend of his family, or, perhaps, some kinsman from a dis- 
tance. At all events, as this sum had lain undisturbed in 
the bank for two years, I saw no reason why it should not 
be applied to the purpose of subsistence, by his sister, to 
whom it now fully belonged. 

It was difficult to overcome her scruples. At length she 
determined to use as small a part as her necessities could 
dispense wth, and to leave the rest untouched for half a year 
longer, when, if no claimant appeared, she might use it with 
less scruple. This half year of precaution expired, and 
nobody appeared to dispute her right. 

She now became extremely anxious to divide this sum, 
gratuitously, with me. To me, the only obstacle to marriage 
was, the want of property. This obstacle, if Mary Wilmot 
consented to bestow her hand where her heart had long 
reposed, would be removed. It was difficult, however, to 
persuade her to accept a man on whom she doated ; but 
who, though urgent in his proffers, was not so deeply in love 
as herself. At length, she consented to be mine, provided, 
at the end of another half year, I should continue equally 
desirous of the gift. 

At this time I was become my o^vn master, and having 
placed Mary in a safe and rural asylum at Abingdon, I paid 
a visit of a few weeks to my uncle near Hatfield. I had 
been here scarcely a fortnight, when, one evening, a stranger 
whom I had formerly known in my boyish days, as the son 
of a neighboring farmer, paid me a visit. This person had 
been abroad for several years, on mercantile adventures, 
in Europe and the West Indies. He had just returned, 
and after various ineffectual inquiries after Wilmot, with 
whom he had formerly been in habits of confidence, he had 
come to me, in the prosecution of the same search. 

After various preliminaries, he made me acquainted with 
the purpose of his search. The substance of his story was 
this ; — After toiling for wealth, during several years, in dif- 
ferent ports of the Mediterranean, be at length acquired 
what he deemed sufficient for frugal susbsistence in America. 
His property he partly invested in a ship and her cargo, 
and partly in a bill of exchange for Jive thousand dollars. 


38 


CLARA HOWARD. 


This bill he transmitted to his friend Wilmot, with directions 
to reserve the proceeds till his arrival. He embarked, 
meajiwhile, in his own vessel, sending, at the same time, 
directions to his wife, who was tlien at Glasgow, to meet him 
in America. 

Unfortunately die ship was wrecked on the coast of 
Africa ; the cargo was plundered or destroyed by the savage 
natives, and he, and a few survivors, were subjected to innu- 
merable hardships, and the danger of perpetual servitude. 
From this he was delivered by the agents of the United 
States, in consequence of a treaty being ratified between us 
and the government of Algiers. Morton was among the 
miserable wretches whose chains were broken on that occa- 
sion, and he had just touched the shore of his native country. 

His attention was naturally directed, in the first place, to 
the fate of the property transmitted to Wilmot. Wilmot, he 
heard, died suddenly. Wilmot’s sister, his only known rela- 
tion, was gone, nobody could tell whither. The merchant 
on whom his bills had been drawn, was partner in a Ham- 
burgh house, to wliich he had lately returned. The ships in 
which he sent his letters had safely arrived. His bills had 
never been protested at any of the notaries, but all the written 
evidences of this transaction, that had remained in his own 
hands, had been buried, with his odier property, in the 
waves. 

After some suspense, and much inquiry, he was directed 
to me, as the dearest friend of Wilmot, and the intended 
husband of his sister. 

You will see, my friend, that the mysteiy which perplexed 
us so long, was now at an end. The coincidence between 
the sum remitted, and diat in our possession, and between 
the time of the probable receipt of the bills, and tliat of the 
deposit made by Wilmot at the bank, left me in no doubt 
as to the true ornier of the money. 

I explained to IVIorton, with the utmost clearness and 
simplicity, every particular relative to this affair. I ac- 
loiowledged the plausibility of his claim ; assured him of 
Miss Wilmot’s readiness, and even eagerness, to do him jus- 
tice, and promised to furnish him, on his retnrn to Philadel- 
phia, with a letter, introducing him to my friend. We 

parted- 


CLARA HOWARD. 


39 


This was a most heavy and unlocked for disappointment 
of ail our schemes of happiness. My heart bled with com- 
passion for the forlorn and destitute Mary. To be thus 
rescued from obscurity and penury, merely to have these 
evils augmented by the bitterness of disappointment, was 
a hard lot. 

I was just emimcipated from my servitude. I was per- 
fectly skilled in my art, but mere skill might supply myself 
with scanty bread, without enabling me to support a family. 
For that end, credit to procure a house, and the means of 
purchasing tools and materials, were necessary ; but I knew 
not which way to look for them. 

My nearest relation was my uncle Walter, who had taken 
me and my sisters, in our infancy, into his protection, and had 
maintained tlie girls ever since. His whole property, how- 
ever, was a small farm, whose profits were barely sufficient 
to defray the current expenses of his family. At his death, 
tliis asylum would be lost to us, as his son, who would then 
become the occupant, had always avowed the most malig- 
nant envy and rancorous aversion to us. As my uncle was 
old, and of a feeble constitution, and" as the girls were still 
young and helpless, I had abundant theme on my own ac- 
count, for uneasy meditation. To these reflections were 
added the miseries, which this reverse of fortune would 
bring down upon the woman whom I prized beyond all the 
world. 

One day, while deeply immersed in such contemplations 
as these, and musefully and mournfully pacing up and down 
the piazza of the inn at Hatfield, a chaise came briskly up 
to tlie door and stopped. I lifted my eyes, and beheld, 
alighting from it, a venerable figure, in whom I instantly 
recognised my friend and benefactor, Mr. Howard. The 
recognition was not more sudden on my side than on his, 
though a few years, at my age, were sufficient to produce 
great changes in personal appearance. Surprise and joy 
nearly deprived me of my senses, when he took me in his 
arms and saluted me in the most paternal manner. We 
entered the house, and as soon as I regained my breath, I 
gave utterance to my transports, in the most extravagant 
terms. 

After the first emotion had subsided, he informed me that 


CLARA HOWARD. 


40 

the sole object of his present journey to Hatfield was a meet- 
ing with me. He had just arrived, witli a wife and daugh- 
ter, in America, where he designed to pass the rest of his 
days. It was his anxious hope to fipd me well and in my 
former situation, as he was now able to take the care of pro- 
viding for me into his own hands. He inquired minutely in- 
to my history since we parted. I could not immediately 
conquer my reserve, on that subject nearest my heart ; but 
in other respects, I was perfectly explicit. 

My narrative seemed not to displease him, and he conde- 
scended in his turn, to give me some insight into his own 
condition. I now discovered that he was sprung from the 
younger branch of a family, at once ancient and noble. He 
received an education more befitting his birth than his for- 
tune ; and had, by a thoughtless and dissipated life, wasted 
his small patrimony. This misfortune had contributed to 
tame his spirit, to open his eyes on the folly of his past con- 
duct, and to direct him in the choice of more rational pur- 
suits. 

He was early distinguished by the favorable regards of a 
lady of great beauty and accomplishments. This blessing 
he did not prize as he ought. Though his devotion to Clara 
Lisle was fervent, he suffered the giddiness of youth, and the 
fascinations of pleasure, to draw him aside from the path of 
his true interest. Her regard for him made her overlook 
many of his foibles, and induced her to try various means to 
restore him to virtue and discretion. These efforts met 
with various success, till at length, some flagrant and unex- 
pected deviation, contrary to promises, and in defiance of 
her warnings, caused a breach between them that was irre- 
parable. 

The head of the nobler branch of Mr. Howard’s family 
was a cousin, a man of excellent, though not of shining cha- 
racter. He had long been my friend’s competitor for the 
favor of Miss Lisle. The lady’s friends were his strenuous 
advocates, and used every expedient of argument or authority, 
to subdue her prepossessions for another. None of these had 
any influence, while my friend afforded her any hopes of his 
reformation. His raslmess and folly having, at length, ex- 
tinguished these hopes, she complied, after much reluctance 
and delay, with die wishes of her family. 


CLARA HOWARB 


41 

This event, communicated by the lady herself in a letter 
to my friend, in which her motives were candidly stated, 
and the most patlietic admonitions were employed to point 
out the errors of his conduct, effected an immediate reform** 
ation. The blessing which he neglected or slighted, when 
within his reach, now acquired inestimable value. His re- 
grets and remorses were very keen, and terminated in a re- 
solution to convert the wreck of his fortune into an annuity, 
and retire for tlie rest of liis life to America. Tliis income, 
though small, was sufficient, economically managed, to 
maintain him decently, at such a village as Hatfield. 

His residence here, at a distance from ancient compan- 
ions, and from all the usual incitements to extravagance, 
completed, in a few years, a thorough change in his charac- 
ter. He became, as I have formerly described him, tempe- 
rate, studious, gentle, and sedate. Tlie irksomeness of soli- 
tude was somewhat relieved by his acquaintance with me, 
and by the efforts which his growing kindness for poor 
Philip induced him to make for improving and befriending 
the lad. These efforts he imagined to be crowned with re- 
markable success, and gradually concentred all his social 
feelings in affection for me. He resolved to be a father to 
me while living, and to leave his few moveables, all he 
had to leave, to me, at his death. 

Tliese prospects were somewhat disturbed by intelligence 
from home, that his cousin was dead. 

Eighteen years absence from his native country, and from 
Miss Lisle, had greatly strengthened Ins attachment to his 
present abode, but had not effaced all the impressions of his 
youth. The recollection of that lady’s charms, her fidelity 
to him, in spite of the opposition of her family, and of his 
ovvTi demerits, her generous efforts to extricate him from his 
difficulties, which even proceeded so far, as to pay, indirectly, 
and tlirough the agency of others, a debt for which he had 
been arrested, always filled his heart with tenderness and 
veneration. These thoughts produced habitual seriousness, 
gratitude to this benefactor, an ardent zeal to fulfil her hopes 
by the dignity of his future deportment ; but was not attend- 
ed with any anger or regret at her compliance with the pru- 
dent wishes of her family, and her choice of one infinitely 
more worthy than himself. At this he sincerely rejoiced, 


CLARA HOWARD. 


4-2 

and felt a pang, at the news of that interruption to her felicity, 
occasioned by her husband’s death. 

This event, however, came gradually to be viewed with 
somewhat different emotions. He began to reflect, that a 
tenderness so fervent as was once cherished for him, was not 
likely to be totally extinguished, by any thing but death. 
His cousin, though a man of worth, had been accepted from 
tlie impulse of generosity and pity, and not from that of love. 
She had been contented, and perhaps happy in her union 
with him ; but, if her first passion was extinct, he imagined 
there would be found no very great difficulty in reviving it. 
Both were still in the prime of life, being under tliirty eight 
years of age. 

The correspondence so long suspended, was now renew- 
ed between them ; and INIr. Howard, with altered views, 
and renovated hopes, now embarked for that country which 
he had believed liimself to have for ever abjured. This new 
state of his affairs by no means lessened his attachment to 
the fortunate youth, who had been for eight years the sole 
companion of his retirement ; while his own destiny was un- 
accomplished, he thought it proper to forbear exciting any 
hopes in me. Should his darling purpose be defeated, he 
meant immediately to return. Should he meet with success, 
and his present views, as to the preference due to America, 
as a place of abode, continued, he meant to exert his influ- 
ence with the elder and younger Clara, for his cousin had 
left behind him one child, a daughter, now in the bloom of 
youth, to induce them to emigrate. In every case, however, 
he was resolved the farmer-boy should not be forgotten. 

His projects were crowned, though not immediately, with 
all the success to be desired. The pair, whom so many 
years, and so wide an interval had severed, w^ere now united, 
and the picture which Mr. Howard drew of the American 
climate and society, obtained his wife’s consent to cross the 
ocean. 

“ My dear Philip,” said Mr. Howard to me, after relating 
these particulars, “ I have a pleasure in tliis meeting with 
you, that I cannot describe. You are the son, not of my in- 
stincts, but of my affections and my reason. Formerly I 
gave you my advice, my instructions, and company, only be- 
cause I had nothing more to give. Now I am rich, and will 


CLARA HOWARD. 


4a 

take care that you shall never be again exposed to the 
chances of poverty. Though opulent, I do not mean to be 
idle. He that knows the true use of riches, never can be 
rich enough ; but my occupation will leave me leisure enough 
for enjoyment ; and you, who will share my labor, shall par- 
take liberally of the profit. For this end, I mean to admit 
you as an inseparable member of my family, and to place 
you, in every respect, on the footing of my son. 

“ My family consists of my wife and her daughter. The 
latter is now twenty three, and you will be able to form a 
just conception of her person and mind, when I tell you, that 
in both respects, she is exactly what her mother was at her 
age. There is one particular, indeed, in which the resem- 
blance is most striking. She estimates the characters of 
others, not by the specious but delusive considerations of 
fortune or birth, but by the intrinsic qualities of heart and 
head. In her marriage choice, which yet remains to be 
made, she will forget ancestry and patrimony, and think only 
of the morals and understanding of the object. Hitherto, 
her affections have been wholly free, but” — here Mr. How- 
ard fixed his eyes with much intenseness and significance, on 
my countenance — “ her parents will neither be grieved nor 
surprised, if, after a residence of some time under the same 
roof with her brother Philip, she should no longer be able to 
boast her freedom in that respect. If ever circumstances 
should 'arise to put my sincerity to the test, you shall never 
find me backward to convince you that I practise no equi- 
vocations and reserves, and prescribe no limitations or condi- 
tions, when I grant you the privilege of calling me father. 

“ My stay witli you at present must be short. I am going, 
on business of importance, to Virginia. 1 shall call here on 
my return, which 1 expect will be soon, and take you with 
me to New York, where I purpose to reside for some time. 
The interval may be useful to you, in settling and arranging 
your little matters, and equipping yourself for your journey.” 

Such, my friend, was the result of this meeting with Mr. 
Howard. "Every thing connected with tliis event was so ab- 
rupt and unexpected, that my mind was a scene of hurry and 
confusion, till his departure, next morning, left me at liberty 
to think on what had past. He left me with marks of the 
most tender affection, with particular advice in what manner 


CLARA HOWARD. 


44 

to adjust my affairs, and with a promise of acquainting me by 
letter witii all his motions. 

I waited with some impatience for Mr. Howard’s return. 
Many things had dropped from him, in our short interview, 
on which I had now leisure to reflect. His views, with re- 
gard to me, could not fail to delight my youthful fancy. I 
was dazzled and enchanted by the prospect which he set be- 
fore me, of entering on a new and more dignified existence, 
of partaking the society of beings like Mrs. Howard and her 
daughter, and of aiding him in the promotion of great and 
useful purposes. 

One intimation, however, had escaped him, which filled 
me with anxious meditations. The young Clara was the 
companion of his voyage hither. She had landed on this 
shore. To her presence and domestic intercourse, I was 
about to be introduced, and 1 was allowed to solicit her 
love. He was willing to bestow her upon me, and had, 
without doubt, gained the concurrence of her mother in this 
scheme. It was thus he meant to insure the felicity, and 
establish the fortune of his pupil. 

There is somewhat in the advantages of birth and rank, 
in the habit of viewing objects through the medium of books, 
that gives a sacred obscurity, a mysterious elevation, to 
human beings. I had been familiar with the names nobility 
and royality, but the things themselves had erver been shroud- 
ed in an awe creating darkness. Their distance had likewise 
produced an interval, which I imagined impossible for me to 
overpass. They were objects to be viewed, like the Divini- 
ty, from afar. The only sentiments which they could excite, 
were reverence and wonder. That I should ever pass the 
mound which separated my residence and my condition from 
theirs, was utterly incredible. 

The ideas annexed to the term peasant are wholly inap- 
plicable to the tillers of ground in America ; but our notions 
are the offspring more of the books we read, than of any other 
of our external circumstances. Our books are almost wholly 
tlie productions of Europe, and the prejudices which infect 
us are derived chiefly from this source. These prejudices 
may be somewhat rectified by age, and by converse nith the 
world, but they flourish in full vigor in youthful minds, reared 
in seclusion and privacy, and undisciplined by intercourse 


CLARA HOWARD. 


45 


with various classes of mankind. In me, they possessed an 
unusual degree of strength. My words were selected and 
defined according to foreign usages, and my notions of dignity 
were modelled on a scale, which tlie revolution has complete- 
ly taken away. I could never forget that my condition was 
that of a peasant^ and in spite of reflection, I was the slave 
of those sentiments of self contempt and humiliation, which 
pertain to that condition elsewhere, through chimerical and 
visionary on the western side of the Atlantic. 

My ambition of dignity and fortune grew out of this sup- 
posed inferiority of rank. Experience had taught me, how 
slender are the genuine wants of a human being, and made 
me estimate, at flieir true value, tlie blessings of competence, 
and fixed property. Our fears are always proportioned to 
our hopes, and what is ardently desired, appears, when 
placed within our reach, to be an illusion designed to tor- 
ment us. We are inclined to question the reality of that 
which our foresight had never suggested as near, though 
our wishes had pei’petually hovered around it. 

When the death of Wilmot put his sister in possession of 
a sum of money, which, when converted into land, would 
procure her and the man whom her affection had distin- 
guished, a domain of four or five hundred fertile acres, my 
emotions I cannot describe. Many would be less affected 
in passing from a fisherman’s hovel to the throne of an opu- 
lent nation. It so much surpassed tlie ordinary bounds of 
my foresight and even of my wishes, that, for a time, I was 
fain to think myself in one of my usual walking dreams. 
My doubts were dispelled only by the repetition of the same 
impressions, and by the lapse of time. I gradually became 
familiarized to the change, and by frequently revolving its 
benefits and consequences, raised the tenor of my ordinary 
sensations to the level, as it were, of my new condition. 

From this unwonted height, Morton’s reappearance had 
tlirown us down to our original obscurity. But now my 
old preceptor had started up before me, and, like my good 
genius, had brought with him gifts immeasurable, and sur- 
passing belief. They existed till now, in another hemisphere ; 
they occupied an elevation in the social scale, to which I 
could scarcely raise my eyes ; yet they were now ^^itliin a 


46 


CLARA HOWARD. 


short journey of my dwelling. I was going to be ushered 
into their presence ; but ray privilege was not to be circum- 
scribed by any sober limits. This heiress of opulence and 
splendor, this child of fortune, and appropriator of elegance 
and grace, and beauty, was proffered to me as a wife ! 

I reflected on the education which 1 had received from 
Mr. Howard ; his affection for me, which had been un- 
limited ; his relation to his wife’s daughter, and the autho- 
rity and respect which that relation, as well as his personal 
qualities, produced. I reflected on the futility of titular 
distinction ; on the capriciousness of wealth, and its inde- 
pendence of all real merit, in the possessor; but still I 
could not retain but for a moment, the confidence and self 
respect which flowed from tliese thoughts. 1 was still noth- 
ing more than an obscure clown, whose life had been spent 
in the barnyard and cornfield, and to whose level, it was 
impossible for a being, qualified and educated like Clara, 
ever to descend. 

You must not imagine, however, that tliis descent was 
desired by me. 1 was bound, by every tie of honor, though 
not of affection, to Mary Wilmot. Incited by compassion 
and by gratitude, I had plighted my vows to her, and had 
formed no wish or expectation of revoking them. These 
vows were to be completed in a few months, by marriage ; 
but this ev’ent, by the unfortunate, though seasonable and 
equitable claim of Morton, was placed at an uncertain dis- 
tance. Marriage, while both of us were poor, w^ould be an 
act of the utmost indiscretion. 

What, however, was taken away by Morton, might, I 
fondly conceived, be restored to us by the generosity of Mr. 
Howard. It was not, indeed, perfectly agreeable to tlie dic- 
tates of my pride, to receive fortune as the boon of any one ; 
but I had always been accustomed to regard Mr. Howard 
more as my father than teacher, and it seemed as if I had 
a natural right to every gift which was needful to my happi- 
ness, and which was in his power to bestow. 

Mary and her claims on me, were, indeed, unknown to 
rav friend. He had no reason to be particularly interested 
in her fate ; and her claims interfered with those schemes 
Avhich he had apparently formed, with relation to Clara and 
myself. How, I asked, might he regard her claims^ In 


CLARA HOWARD. 


47 


vvhai light would he consider that engagement of the under- 
standing, rather than of the heart, into which I had entered 9 
How far would he esteem it proper to adhere to it ; and 
what efforts might he make to dissolve it 9 

Various incidents had hindered me from thoroughly ex- 
plaining to him my situation, during his short stay at Hatfield ; 
but I resolved to seize the opportunity of our next meeting, 
and by a frank disclosure, to put an end to all my doubts. 
Meanwhile, I employed the interval of his absence, in giv^ 
ing an account of all these events to Mary, and impatiently 
waited the arrival of a letter. The period of my friend’s 
absence was nearly expired, and the hourly expectation of 
his return prevented me from visiting Mary in person. In- 
stead of his coming, however, I at length received a letter 
from him in tliese terms. 


Richmond, Nov. 11. 

I shall not call on you at Hatfield. I am weary of tra- 
versing hills and dales ; and my detention in Virginia being 
longer than I expected, shall go on board a vessel i i this 
port, bound for New York. Contract, in my name, with 
your old friend, for the present accommodation of the girls, 
and repair to New York as soon as possible. Search out 
No. — , Broadway. If I am not there to embrace you, 
inquire for my wife or daughter, and mention your name. 
Make haste ; the women long to see a youtli in whose educa- 
tion I had so large a share ; and be sure, by your deport- 
ment, not to discredit your instructor, and belie my good 
report. ' Yours, E. Howard 


Being, by this letter, relieved from the necessity of staying 
longer at Hatfield, I prepared to visit my friend at Abingdon. 
Some six or seven days had elapsed since my messenger 
had left with her my last letter, and I had not since heard 
from her. I had been enjoined to repair to New York with 
expedition, but I could not omit the present occasion of an 
interview with Mary. Morton’s claim would produce an 
essential change in her condition, and I was desirous of 
discussing with her the validity of this claim, and the conso 
quences of admitting it. 




CLARA HOWARD. 


I had not seen Morton since his first visit. I now, in my 
way to Abingdon, called at his father’s house. 

The old man appeared at the door. 

His son had visited and staid with him a few days, but 
had afterwards returned to the city. He had gone thither 
to settle some affairs, and had promised to come back in a 
few weeks. He knew not in what affairs he was engaged — 
oould not tell how far he had succeeded, or whereabouts in 
fhe city he resided. 

I proceeded to Abingdon, not without some expectation 
of Morton’s having already accomplished his wishes, and 
persuaded my friend to refund the money; and yet, in a 
case of such importance, I could not easily believe that my 
concurrence, or at least my advice, would be dispensed with. 

I went to her lodgings as soon as I arrived. I had pro- 
cured her a pleasant abode, at the house of a lady who was 
nearly allied to my uncle, and where the benefits of decent 
and affectionate society could be enjoyed without leaving her 
apai’tments. Mrs. Bordley was apprized of tlie connexion 
which subsisted between her inmate and me, and had con- 
tracted and expressed much affection for her guest. On 
inquiring for Miss Wilmot of her hostess, she betrayed some 
surprise. 

“ Mary Wilmot T’ she answered ; “ that is a strange ques- 
tion from you ; surely you know* she is not here.” 

“Not here !” cried 1, somewhat startled; “what has 
become of her 9” 

“ You do not know then that she has left us for good and 
■ill'?” 

“No, indeed; not a syllable of any such design has 
reached me ; but wither has she gone 

“ That is more than I can say. If you are uninformed 
on that head, it cannot be expected that I should be in the 
secret. I only know, that three days ago she told me of her 
intention to change her lodgings, and she did so accordingly, 
yesterday morning at sunrise.” 

“ But what was her motive 9 What cause of dislike did 
she express to this house 9 I expected she would remain 
here, till she changed it for a house of her own.” 

“ Why indeed, that may be actually the case now, for she 
went aw'ay with a very spruce young gentleman, in 


CLARA HOWARD. 


49 

chaise. But that cannot be. Poor creature ! Slie was in 
no state for so joyous a thing as matrimony. She was very 
feeble ; nay, she was quite ill ; she had scarcely left her 
bed during five days before, and with difficulty got out of it, 
and dressed herself, when the chaise called for her. She 
would eat notliing, notwithstanding all my persuasion, and 
the pains 1 took to prepare some light nice thing, such as a 
weak stomach could bear. When she told me she meant 
to leave my house, I was as much surprised as you, and in- 
quired what had offended or displeased her in my behaviour. 
She assured me that she had been entirely satisfied, and that 
her motives for leaving me had no connexion with my deport- 
ment. There was a necessity for going, though ^he could 
not explain to me what it was. I ventured to ask where she 
designed to go, but she avoided answering me for some time ; 
and when I repeated the question, she said she could not 
describe her new lodgings — she knew not in what spot she 
was destined to take up her rest — and confessed that there 
were the most cogent reasons for her silence on that head. 
T mentioned the coldness of the weather, and her own ill 
health ; but she answered, that no option had been left her, 
and that she must go, if it were even necessary to carry her 
from her bed to the carriage. All this, as you may well 
suppose, was strange ; and I renewed my questions and 
entreaties, but she gave me no satisfaction, and persisted 
in her resolutions. Accordingly, on Thursday morning, a 
chaise stopped at the door, took her in, with a small trunk, 
and hastened away.” 

I was confounded and perplexed at this tale. No event 
was less expected than this. No intimation had even been 
dropped by Mary, that created the least suspicion of this 
design. She had left, as Mrs. Bordley proceeded to inform 
me, all her furniture, without direction to whom, or in 
what manner to dispose of it, and yet had said that she 
never designed to return. The gentleman with wdiom she 
departed was unknown to Mrs. Bordley, and had stopt so 
short a time, as not to suffer her to obtain, by remarks or 
interrogatories, any gratification of her curiosity. 

Having ineffectually put a score of questions to Mrs. Bord- 
ley, I entered the deserted apartments. Tlie keys of closets 


50 


CLARA HOWARD. 


and drawers no where appeared, though the furniture waS 
arranged as usual. Inquiring of my companion for these — 

“ Aye,” said she, “ I had almost forgotten. Tlie last 
thing she said before the chair left the door, holding out a 
bunch of keys to me, was, ‘ Give these to — ’ there her voice 
faltered, and I observed the tears flow. I received the 
keys, and though she went away without ending her sen- 
tence, I took for granted it was you she meant.” 

I eageily seized the keys, and hoped, by their assistance, 
to find a clue to this labyrinth. I opened the closets and 
drawers and turned over their contents, but found no paper 
which would give me the intelligence I wanted. No script 
of any kind appeared ; notliing but a few sheets, and the 
like cumbrous furniture. A writing desk stood near the 
wall, but blank paper, w^afers, and quills, were all that it 
contained. I desisted, at length, from my unprofitable 
labor, and once more renewed my inquiries of Mrs. Bord- 
ley. 

She described the dress and form of the young man who 
attended the fugitive. I could not at first recognize in her 
description any one wdiom I knew. His appearance bespoke 
him to be a citizen, and he seemed to have arrived from the 
city, as well as to return thither. She dwelt with particu- 
lar emphasis on the graces of the youth, and frequently 
insinuated that a new gallant had supplanted the old. 

For some time, 1 was deaf to these surmises ; but, at 
length, they insensibly revived in my fancy, and acquired 
strength. I began to account for appearances so as to jus- 
tify my suspicion. She had not informed me of her mo- 
tions ; but that might arise from compunction and shame. 
There might even be something illicit in this new connexion, 
to which necessity might have impelled her. The claims of 
Morton were made known to her by me, but possibly they 
had been previously imparted by himself. To shun that 
{joverty to which this discovery would again reduce her, she 
listened to the offers of one, whose opulence was able to 
relieve her wants. 

The notion that her conduct was culpable, vanished in a 
moment, and I abhorred myself for harboring it. I re- 
membered all the proofs of a pure and exalted mind, impa- 
tient of contempt and poverty, but slii'inking wdth infinitely 


CLARA HOWARD. 


51 


more reluctance from vice and turpitude, which she had 
given. I called to mind her treatment of a man, by name 
Sedley, who had formerly solicited her love, and this re- 
membrance gave birth to a new conjecture, which subse- 
quent reflection only tended to confirm. 

Sedley had contracted a passion for Mary six or eight 
years ago. He was a man of excellent morals, and heir to 
a great fortune. He had patrimony in his own possession, and 
had much to hope for from his parents. These parents 
hated and reviled the object of their son’s affections, merely 
because she was poor, and their happiness seemed to de- 
pend on his renouncing her. To this he would never con- 
sent, and Mary might long ago have removed all the evils 
of her situation, had she been willing to accept Sedley’s 
offers ; but though she had the highest esteem for his virtues, 
and gratitude for liis preference, her heart was another’s. 
Besides, her notions of duty were unusually scrupulous. 
Her poverty had only made her more watchful against any 
encroachments on her dignity, and she disdained to enter a 
family, who thought themselves degraded by her alliance. 

Sedley was a vehement spirit. Opposition whetted, rath- 
er than blunted his zeal; and Mary’s conduct, while it 
heightened his admiration and respect, gave new edge to 
his desires. The youth, whom she loved, did not admit a 
mutual affection, and his poverty would have set marriage at 
a hopeless distance, even if it had been conceived. Sed- 
ley, therefore, believed himself the only one capable of 
truly promoting her happiness, and persisted in courting her 
favor longer and with more constancy, than might have been 
expected from his ardent feelings and versatile age. 

1 need not repeat that Mary’s affections were mine. To 
Sedley, therefore, I was the object of aversion and fear, and 
there never took place between us intercourse sufficient 
to subdue his prejudices. After her brother’s death, mar- 
riage was resolved upon between us, and Sedley slackened 
the ardor of his pursuit. Still, however, he would not ab- 
jure her society. 

Some secret revolution, perhaps, had been wrought in the 
mind of my friend. Her consent to marriage had been 
extorted by me, for she was almost equally averse to mar- 
riage with one bv wliom she was not loved with that warmth 


eLARA HOWARD. 


which she thought her due, as with one who possessed every 
title to preference but her love. These scruples had been 
laid aside, in consideration of the benefit which her brother’s 
death, by giving her property, enabled her to confer upon 
me, who was destitute. Tliis benefit it was no longer in 
her power to confer. She would consider herself as sever- 
ed from me for ever, and in tliis state a renewal of Sedley’s 
importunities might subdue her reluctance. On comparing 
Mrs. Bordley’s description of the voice, features, garb, and 
carriage of Mary’s attendant, with those of Sedley, I fan- 
cied I discovered a strong resemblance between them. Some 
other coincidences, which came to light in the course of the 
day, made me certain as to the person of her companion. 
It was Sedley himself. 

I was willing to gain all the knowledge of this affair which 
was within my reach. Sedley’s usual place of abode was 
his father’s house in Virginia, but he chiefly passed liis time 
in Philadelphia, where he resided with his sister, w^ho was a 
lady of great merit, and left, by her husband’s death, in opu- 
lent circumstances. This lady had made frequent overtures 
of friendship to Mar}^, but these had, for the most part, been 
declined. This reserve was not wliolly free from pride. 
A mistaken sensibility made her shun those occasions for 
contempt or insult, which might occur in her intercourse 
with the rich. The relation in which she stood to Sedley 
was another impediment. A just regard for his happiness 
compelled her to exclude herself as much as possible from 
iiis company. The kindness of Mrs. Valentine had not 
been diverted by these scruples and reserves, and some in- 
tercourse had taken place between them before Mary’s re- 
tirement to Abingdon. 

This change of views in my friend had given me much 
disquiet, but some reflection convinced me that it was a 
cause of rejoicing rather than regret. Wedlock had been 
desired by me, more from zeal for the happiness of another, 
than for my own. I had lamented that destiny which made 
the affections of three persons merely the instruments of 
their misery, and had exerted my influence to give a new 
direction to my friend’s passions. This undertaking was no 
less delicate than arduous, and no wonder, tliat in hands so 
unskilful as mine, the attempt should fail. I could not be 


CLARA HOWARD. 


53 

much displeased that this end was efFected, though I was 
somewhat mortified on finding that she did not deem me 
worthy of being apprized of her schemes. I reflected, how- 
ever, that this information might only be delayed ; and im- 
agined a thousand plausible reasons which might induce her 
to postpone intelligence so unexpected, if not disagreeable 
to me. 

Next morning I repaired to the city, and to Mrs. Valen- 
tine’s house. I inquired of a female servant for Miss Wil- 
mot, but was told that she had been there, a few hours, on 
the preceding Tliursday, and had then gone, in company 
with her mistress and Mr. Sedley, to New York. No time 
had been fixed for their return, but Mrs. Valentine had said 
that her absence might last for six or eight months. The 
steward, who might afford me more information, w^as out of 
town. 

Thus my conjectures were confirmed ; and having no 
reason for further delay, I immediately set out in the same 
road. My thoughts, disembarrassed from all engagements 
with Mary, persuaded of her union with Sedley, and con- 
vinced that this union would more promote her happiness 
than any other event, I returned without reluctance to Clar^ 
Howard. I was impatient to compare those vague and glit- 
termg conceptions which hovered in my fancy, with the 
truth ; therefore adopted the swiftest conveyance, and arriv- 
ed, in the evening of the same day, at Powle’s Hook ferry. 

My excursions had hitherto been short and rare, and the 
stage on which I was now entering, abounded with novelty 
and grandeur. The second city in our country was fa- 
miliar to my fancy by description ; but my ideas were dis- 
jointed and crude, and my attention was busy in searching, 
in the objects that presented themselves, for similitudes 
which were seldom to be met with. A sort of tremulous, 
but pleasing astonishment, overwhelmed me, while I gazed 
through the twilight, on the river and the city on the further 
shore. My sensations of solemn and glowing expectation 
chiefly flowed from tlie foresight of the circumstances in 
which I was preparing to place myself. 

Men exist more for the future than the present. Our 
being is never so intense and vivid, if I may so speak, as 
when wo are on the eve of spme anticipated revolution, mo- 


o4 


CLARA HOWARD. 


inentous to our happiness.’ Our attention is alti’acted by 
every incident that brings us nearer to the change, and we 
are busy in marking the agreement between objects as they 
rise before us, and our previous imaginations. Thus it was 
with me. My palpitations increased as I drew near the 
liouse to which I had been directed, and I could scarcely 
govern my emotions sufficiently to inquire of the servant 
who appeared to my summons, for Mrs. Howard. 

I was ushered into a lighted parlor, and presently a lady 
entered. She bore no marks of having passed the middle 
age, and her countenance exhibited the union of fortitude 
and sweetness. Her air was full of dignity and condescen- 
sion. Methought I wanted no other assurance but that 
which the sight of her conveyed, that tliis was the wife of 
my friend. 

I was thrown, by her entrance, into some confusion, and 
was at a loss in what manner to announce myself. The 
moment she caught a distinct glance of my figure, her fea- 
tures expanded into a smile, and offering her hand, she ex- 
claimed — 

“ Ahah ! This, without doubt, is the young friend, whom 
we have so anxiously looked for. Your name is Philip 
Stanley, and as such I welcome you, with the tenderness of 
a mother, to this home.” — Turning to a servant who follow'- 
ed her, she continued, “ Call Clara hither. Tell her that 
a friend has arrived.” 

Before I had time to comment on this abrupt reception, 
the door was again opened. A nymph, robed with the 
most graceful simplicity, entered, and advancing tow^ards 
me, offered me her hand. 

“ Here,” said the elder lady, “ is the son and brother, 
whom Mr. Howard promised to procure for us. Welcome 
him, my girl, as such.” 

Lifting her eyes from the floor, and casting on me bash- 
ful but affectionate looks, the young lady said, in a half 
whisper, “ He is truly welcome” — and again offered the 
hand which, confounded and embarrassed as I at first was, 
I had declined to accept. Now, however, I w^as less back- 
ward. 

An unaffected and sprightly conversation foUow^ed, that 
fended to banish those timidities which w’ere too appa- 


CLARA HOWARD. 


55 


vent in my deportment. Mrs. Howard entered into a gay 
and almost humorous description of my person, such as she 
had received before my arrival, and remarked the differ- 
ences between the picture and the original, intermingling 
questions, which, compelling me to open my lips in answer 
to them, helped me to get rid of my awkwardness. Pre- 
sently supper w^as prepared, and despatched with the utmost 
cheerfulness. 

My astonishment and rapture were unspeakable. Such 
condescension and familiarity, surpassing all my fondest ima- 
ginations, from beings invested with such dazzling superiority, 
almost intoxicated my senses. My answers were disadvan- 
tageous to myself, for they were made in such a tumult and 
delirium of emotions, that they could not fail of being inco- 
herent or silly. 

Gradually these raptures subsided, and I acted and spoke 
with more sobriety and confidence. I had leisure also to 
survey the features of my friends. Seated at opposite sides 
of the table, with lights above and around us, every linea- 
ment and gesture were distinctly seen. It was difficult to 
say which person w^as the most lovely. The bloom and 
glossiness of youth had, indeed, disappeared in the elder, 
but the ruddy tints and the smoothness of health, joined to 
the most pathetic and intelligent expression, set the mother 
on a level, even in personal attractions, with the daughter. 
No music was ever more thrilling than tlie tones of Clara. 
They sunk deeply into my heart, while her eyes, casually 
turned on me, and beaming with complacency, contributed 
still more to enchant me. 

In a few days, the effects of novelty gradually disappear- 
ing, I began to find myself at home. Mr. Howard’s arrival, 
and the cordiality of his behavior, contiibuted still more to 
place me at ease. Those employments he designed for me 
now occurred. They generally engrossed the half of each 
day. They were light, despatched without toil or anxiety, 
and conduced, in innumerable ways, to my pleasure and 
improvement. They introduced me to men of different 
professions and characters, called forth my ingenuity and 
knowledge, and supplied powerful incitements to new" studies 
and inquiries. 

At noon, the day’s business was usually dismissed,, and 


o6 


CLARA HOWARD. 


the afternoon and evening were devoted to intellectual and 
social occupations. These were generally partaken by the 
ladies, and visits were received and paid so rarely, as to 
form no interruption to domestic pleasures. Collected around 
the fire, and busied in music, or books, or discourse, the 
hours flew away with unheeded rapidity. The contrast 
which this scene bore to my past life perpetually recurred to 
my reflections, and added new and inexpressible charms to 
that security and elegance by which I was at present sur- 
rounded. 

Clara was the companion of my serious and my sportive 
hours. I found, in her character, simplicity and tenderness, 
united to powerful intellects. The name of children w’as 
often conferred upon us by my friend and his wife ; all 
advances to familiarity and confidence between us were 
encouraged ; our little plans of walking or studying together 
were sanctioned by smiles of approbation ; and their happi- 
ness was evidently imperfect wliile ours was suspended or 
postponed. 

In this intercourse there was nothing to hinder the growth 
of that sentiment, which is so congenial with virtuous and 
youthful bosoms. My chief delight was in sharing the 
society and performing offices of kindness for Clara ; and 
this delight the frankness of her nature readily shewed to be 
mutual. Love was not avowed or solicited, and did not 
frequently recur, in an undisguised shape, to my thoughts. 
My desires seemed to be limited to her presence, and to 
participating her occupations and amusements. Satisfied in 
like manner with this, no marks of impatience or anxiety 
were ever betrayed by her, but in my absence. 

The fulness of content wliich I now experienced did not 
totally exclude the remembrance of Mary. I had heard 
and seen nothing of Morton since my departure from Hat- 
field. The only way of accounting for this, was to suppose 
that Mary and he had met, and that the former, persuaded 
of the equity of his claim, had resigned to him tlie money 
which he had remitted to her brother. 

The silence which she had observed, involved me in the 
deepest perplexity. 1 spared no pains to discover Mrs. Va- 
lentine’s residence, but my pains were fruitless. My inqui- 


CLARA HOWARD. 


57 


ries rendered it certain that, at least, no such person resided 
in New York. 

Thus occupied, the winter passed away. On a mild, but 
blustering evening in March, I happened to be walking, in 
company with Clara, on the battery. 1 chanced, after some 
time, to spy before me, coming in an opposite direction, the 
man whose fate had engaged so much of my attention. It 
was Morton himself. On seeing me, he betrayed much 
satisfaction, but no surprise. We greeted each other affec- 
tionately. Observing that he eyed my companion with par- 
ticular earnestness, I introduced him to her. 

This meeting was highly desirable, as I hoped to collect 
from it an explication of what had hitherto been a source of 
perplexity. I likewise marked a cheerfulness in my friend’s 
deportment, which shewed that some favorable change had 
taken place. He seemed no less anxious than I for a con- 
fidential interview ; and an appointment of a meeting on tlie 
same evening was accordingly made. 

Having conducted Clara home, I hastened to the place 
appointed. I was forthwith ushered into a parlor, where 
Morton was found in company with a lady of graceful and 
pensive mien, with a smiling babe in her arms, to whom be 
introduced me as to his wife. This incident confirmed my 
favorable prognostics, and I waited, with impatience, till the 
lady’s departure removed all constraint from our conversa- 
tion. 

In a short time she left us alone. “ I congratulate you,” 
said I, “ on your reunion with your family, but cannot help 
expressing my surprise that you never favored me with a 
second visit, or gave me any intelligence of your good for- 
tune.” 

He apologized for his neglect, by saying, that the arrival 
of his wife and daughter, in New York, obliged him, shortly 
after our interview, to hasten to this city, where successive 
engagements had detained him till now. He was, neverthe- 
less, extremely desirous of a meeting, and intended, as soon 
as pleasant weather should return, to go to Hatfield, on pur- 
pose to see me. This meeting, however, had fortunately 
occurred to preclude the necessity of that journey. He 
then inquired into the health of Miss Wilmot, and her pre- 


58 


CLARA HOWARD. 


sent situation. I was anxious to see her,” he continued, 
“ on account of that affair, on which we conversed at our 
last meeting. As her brother’s friend, I was, likewise, de- 
sirous of seeing her, and tendering her any service in my 
power, but when taking measures to bring about an inter- 
view, I received a letter from my wife, who, to my infinite 
surprise and satisfaction, had embarked for America, and 
arrived safely at New York. My eagerness to see my 
family made me postpone this interview for tlie present, and 
one engagement has since so rapidly succeeded another, 
that I have never been at leisure to execute this design.” 

“ What,” said I, “ has no meeting taken place between 
Mary Wilmot and you ? Has she not restored the money 
you claimed ?” 

“ Surely,” replied he, you cannot be ignorant tliat I 
have never received it. I doubted whether I ought to re- 
ceive it, even if my title were good. It was chiefly to be- 
come acquainted with her, that I looked for her, and my good 
fortune has since enabled me to dispense with any thing 
else. The property, left by her brother, may rightfully 
belong to her, notwithstanding present appearances. At 
any rate, her possessions shall be unmolested by me.” 

He then proceeded to inform me, that his wife’s parents 
being deceived by his long silence, and the intelligence of 
liis shipwreck, into the opinion of his death, had relented, 
and settled an independent and liberal pension on their 
daughter, on condition of her choosing some abode at a dis- 
tance from them. She proposed to retire, with her child, to 
some neat and rural abode in Cornwall, and was on the point 
of executing this design, when letters were received from 
her husband, at Algiers, which assured her of his safety, and 
requested her to embark for America, where it was his in- 
tention to meet her. She had instantly changed her plans, 
and selling her annuity on good terms, had transported her- 
self and her property to New York, where her husband 
being apprized of her arrival, hastened to join her. 

“ Thus,” continued Morton, “ you have, in my destiny, a 
striking instance of the folly of despair. My shipwreck, 
and my long absence, in circumstances wliich hindered all 
intercourse between me and my family, were the most pro- 
pitious events that could have happened. Nothing but the 


CLARA HOWARD. 


59 


belief of my death, and the consequent distresses of my wife, 
could have softened the animosity of her parents. Her dis- 
obedience, they thought, had been amply punished, and fate 
having taken from me the power of receiving any advantage 
from their gift, they consented to make her future life secure, 
at least, from want. 

“ It was also lucky, that their returning affection stopped 
just where it did. Their resentment was still so powerful as 
to make them refuse to see her, and to annex to their gift, the 
stem condition of residing at a distance from them. Hence 
she was enabled to embark for America, without detecting 
their mistake, as to my death. They carefully shut their 
ears against all intelligence of her condition, whether direct 
or indirect, and will probably pass their lives in ignorance of 
that, which, if known, would only revive their upbraidings 
and regrets. 

“ I am not sorry for the hardships I have endured. They 
are not unpleasing to remembrance, and serve to brighten and 
endear the enjoyments of my present state, by contrast with 
former sufferings. I have enough for the kind of life which 
I prefer to all others, and have no desire to enlarge my stock. 
Meanwhile, I am anxious for the welfare of Miss Wilmot, and 
shall rejoice in having been, though undesignedly, the means 
of her prosperity. 

“ I heard, in Philadelphia, that a marriage was on foot be- 
tween her and you. I flattered myself, when I met you this 
evening, that your companion was her, and secretly congrat- 
ulated you on the possession of so much gracefulness and 
beauty. In this, it seems, I was partly mistaken. This is a 
person very difierent from Mary Wilmot ; but a friend, whom 
I met, shortly after parting from you, and to whom I de- 
scribed her, assured me that this was the object of your 
choice. Pray, what has become of Miss Wilmot 9” 

I frankly confessed to him my ignorance of her condition, 
and related what had formerly been the relation between her 
and me. I expressed my surprise at finding that she was 
still in possession of the money, after the representations I 
had made ; and at the silence she had so long observed. 

When I recollected in what manner, and in whose compa- 
ny, she had left Abingdon, I could not shut out some doubts, 
as to her integrity. She was, indeed, mistress of her own 


60 


CLARA HOWARD. 


actions, and Sedley was not unworthy of her choice ; but her 
neglect of my letter, and her keeping tliis money, were sus- 
picious accompaniments. This belief was too painful to at- 
tain my ready acquiescence, and I occasionally consoled 
myself, by imagining her conduct to proceed from some mis- 
apprehension, on the one or other part. Mrs. Valentine’s 
reputation was unspotted, and under her guardianship, it was 
scarcely possible for any injury to approach my friend’s per- 
son or morals. 

My anxiety to discover the truth was now increased. Af- 
ter being so long accustomed to partake her cares, and 
watch over her safety, I could not endure this profoimd igno- 
rance. I was even uncertain as to her existence. It was 
impossible but that my friendship would be of some benefit. 
My sympathy could not fail to alleviate her sorrow, or en- 
hance her prosperity. 

But what means had I of removing this painful obscurity'? 
I knew not which way to look for her. My discoveries 
must be wholly fortuitous. 

Notwithstanding my own enjoyments, I allowed the image 
of Mary Wilmot to intrude into my thoughts too frequently. 
Some change in my temper was discerned by Clara, and 
she inquired into the cause. At first, 1 was deterred by in- 
definite scruples, from unfolding the cause, but some reflec- 
tion shewed me I was wrong, in so long concealing from her 
a transaction of this moment. I therefore seized a favorable 
opportunity, and recounted all the incidents of my life, con- 
nected with this poor fugitive. 

When I began, however, I was not aware of the embar- 
rassments which I was preparing to suffer and inflict. We 
used to sit up much longer than our friends, and after they 
had retired to repose, taking their places on the sofa, allowed 
the embers to die gradually away, while we poured forth, 
unrestrained, the effusions of the moment. It was on one of 
these occasions that, after a short preface, I began my story. 
I detailed the origin of my intercourse with Miss Wilmot, tlie 
discovery of her passion for me, the contest between that 
passion and my indifference on one side, and the claims and 
solicitations of Sedley on the other. I was listened to with 
the deepest emotion. Curiosity enabled her to stifle it for 
some time ; but when I came to the events of Wilraot’s 


CLARA HOWARD. 


61 


death, tlie discovery of his property, and the consequent 
agreement to marry, she was able to endure the recital no 
longer. She burst into tears, and articulated with difficulty. 
— “ Enough, my friend, I know the rest — I know what you 
would say. Your melancholy is explained, and I see that 
my fate is fixed in eternal misery.” 

I was at once shocked, astonished, and delighted, by the 
discovery which was thus made, and made haste, by re- 
counting subsequent transactions, to correct her error. She 
did not draw the same inferences from the flight and silence 
of the girl, or drew them with less confidence than I. She 
was not consoled by my avowals of passion for herself, and 
declared that she considered my previous contract as invio- 
lable, Nothing could absolve me from it, but the absolute 
renunciation of Miss Wilmot herself. 

I considered the silence and disappearance of Mary as a 
sufficient renunciation of her claims, and once more dwelt 
upon the scruples and objections which she had formerly 
raised to our alliance, which had been, imperfectly, and for 
a time, removed by the death of her brother, and which 
Morton’s arrival had restored to their original strengtli. 
Some regard, likewise, was due to my own felicity, and to 
that of one whose happiness deserved to be as zealously 
promoted as that of the fugitive. It was true, that I had 
tendered vows to Miss Wilmot, which my understanding, 
and not my heart — wliich gratitude, and not affection, had 
dictated. This tender, in die circumstances in which I was 
then placed, was necessary and proper ; but these circum- 
stances had now changed. My offer had been tacidy re- 
jected. Not only my love, but my friendship, had been 
slighted and despised. My affections had never been de- 
voted to another, and the sacrifice of inclination was limited 
to myself. This indifference, however, existed no more. 
It was supplanted by a genuine and ardent attachment for 
one in all respects more worthy. I was willing to hope that 
this attachment was mutual. Fortune, and her parents, and 
and her own heart, were all propitious to my love ; and to 
stifle and thwart it, for the sake of one who had abjured 
my society and my friendship — who renounced my proffer- 
ed hand, and cancelled all my promises — who had possibly 


62 


CLARA HOWARD. 


made herself unworthy of my esteem, by the forfeiture of 
honor itself, or more probably had given up all her claims 
on my justice and compassion, by accepting another, would 
be, in the highest degree, absurd and unjustifiable. 

These arguments wrought no effect upon Clara. It was 
her duty, she answered, to contend with selfish regards, and 
to judge of the feelings of others by her own. Whatever 
reluctance she might experience in resigning me to another, 
in whatever degree she might thwart the wishes and schemes 
of her parents, it was her duty to resign me, and she should 
derive more satisfaction from disinterested, than from selfish 
conduct. She would not attempt to disguise her feelings 
and wishes, and extenuate the sacrifice she was called on to 
make, but she had no doubt as to what was right, and her 
resolution to adhere to it would be immoveable. 

This resolution, and this inflexibility, were wholly unex- 
pected. I was astonished and mortified ; and having ex- 
hausted all my arguments in vain, gave way to some degree 
of acrimony and complaint, as if I were capriciously treated. 
At one time, I had thoughts of calling her parents to my aid, 
and explaining to them my situation with regard to Mary, 
and soliciting them to exert their authority in my behalf with 
Clara. 

A deep and incurable sadness now appeared in my friend, 
and strong, though unostentatious, proofs were daily afford- 
ed, that an exquisite sense of justice had dictated her de- 
portment, and that she had laid upon herself a task to which 
her fortitude was scarcely equal. It appeared to me the 
highest cruelty to aggravate the difficulty of this task, by en- 
listing against her those whose autliority she most revered, 
and whose happiness she was most desirous of promoting. 

My eagerness to trace Miss Wilmot to her retreat, to find 
out her condition, and make her, if possible, my advocate 
with Clara, was increased by this unhappy resolution. I be- 
gan to meditate anew upon the best means of effecting this. 

I blamed myself for having so long failed to employ all the 
means in my power, and resolved to begin my search with- 
out delay. Clara, whose conclusions respecting Miss Wil- 
mot’s motives were far more charitable than mine, was no 
less earnest in inciting me to this pursuit. She believed 
Miss Wilmot’s conduct to have been consistent with integrity, 


CLARA HOWARD. 


63 


that it flowed from a generous but erroneous self-denial, and 
that the re-establishment of intercourse between us would 
terminate in the happiness of both. 

The incidents formerly related had made it certain that 
Miss Wilmot had flown away in company with Sedley. 
Sedley’s patrimony and fixed abode were in Virginia. 
There, it was most probable, that he and the fugitive would 
be found. There, at least, should Sedley have abandoned 
his ancient residence, was it most likely that the means of 
tracing his footsteps would be found. Mary, if not at pres- 
ent in his company, or in that of his sister, had not perhaps 
concealed her asylum from them, and might be discovered 
by their means. Fortunately, Mr. Howard had engage- 
ments at Richmond, which would shortly require his own 
presence, or that of one in whom he could confide. He 
had mentioned diis necessity in my presence, in such a way 
as shewed that he would not be unwilling to transfer his 
business to me. Hitherto I had been unwilling to relinquish 
my present situation ; but now I begged to be entrusted with 
his commission, as it agreed with my own projects. 

In a few days I set out upon this journey. Passing neces- 
sarily at no great distance from Hatfield, I took that oppor- 
tunity of visiting my uncle and sisters. You may imagine 
my surprise on finding, at my uncle’s house, a letter for me, 
from Mary, which had arrived there just after my departure, 
in the preceding autumn, and had lain, during the whole 
winter, neglected and forgotten, in a drawer. 

This letter was worthy of my friend’s generous and indig- 
nant spirit, and fully accounted for her flight from Abingdon. 
She was determined to separate herself from me, to die in 
some obscure recess, whither I should never be able to trace 
her, and thus to remove every obstacle in the way of my 
pretensions to'one, younger, lovelier, and richer than herself. 
In this letter was inclosed an order for the money, which, as 
I had taught her too hastily to believe, belonged to another. 

I believe you know that I am not a selfish or unfeeling 
wn’etch. What but the deepest regret could I feel at the 
ignorance in which I had so long been kept of her destiny ; 
what but vehement impatience to discover the place of her 
retreat, and persuade her to accept my vows, or, at least, to 
take back the money to which Morton’s title was not yet 


CLARA HOWARD. 


64 

proved, which would save her at least from the horrors of that 
penury she was so litde qualified to endure, and to wliich, 
for more than six inclement months, she had been, through 
unhappy misapprehensions, subjected % 

Li diis mood I hastened to this city, but my heroism 
quickly evaporated. I felt no abatement of my eagerness 
to benefit the unhappy fugitive, by finding her, counselling 
her, consoling her, repossessing her of the means of easy, if 
not of affluent subsistence ; but more than this, I felt myself 
incapable of offering. I knew full well, that, when acquainted 
with the whole truth, she never would accept me as her’s ; 
but I despaired of gaining any thing with respect to Clara, 
by that rejection. I despaired of ever lighting again on Miss 
Wilmot. Besides, my pride was piqued and wounded by 
resolutions that appeared to me absurd — to arise from pre- 
judiced views and a narrow heart — from unreasonable regards 
bestowed upon one, of whose merits she had no direct 
knowledge, and blameable indifference to another, whom 
she had abundant reasons to love. 

The letters that passed between us only tended to convince 
me that she was implacable, and I left the city of Philadelphia 
witli a secret determination of never returning. I resolved 
to solicit Mr. Howard’s permission to accompany some 
surveyors employed by him, who were to pass immediately 
into the western country. By this means, I hoped to shake 
off fetters that were now become badges of misery and 
ignominy. 

The wisdom of man, when employed upon the future, 
is incessantly taught its own weakness. Had an angel 
whispered me, as I mounted the stage for Baltimore, that I 
should go no farther on that journey than Schuylkill, and 
that, without any new argument or effort on my part, Clara 
would, of her own accord, call me back to her and to happi- 
ness, I should no doubt have discredited the intimation. 
Yet such was the event. 

In order to rescue a drowning passenger, I leaped into the 
river. The weather being bleak and unwholesome, I was 
seized, shortly after my coming out, with a fever, which 
reduced me, in a very few days, to the brink of the grave. 
Now was the solicitude of my Clara awakened. When in 
danger of losing me for ever, she discovered the weakness 


CLARA HOWARD. 


65 


of her scruples, and effectually recalled me to life, by en- 
treating me to live for her sake. 

I have not yet perfectly recovered my usual health. I 
am unfit for business or for travelling ; and standing in need 
of some amusement which will relieve, without fatiguing my 
attention, I called to mind your claims on me, and determin- 
ed to give you the account you desired. 

When I received your letter, informing me of your design 
to meet me in New York, I was utterly dispirited and mis- 
erable. My design of coming southward, I knew, would 
prevent an immediate meeting with you, and as I had then 
conceived the project of a journey to the western waters, 
I imagined that we should never have another meeting. 

Now, my friend, my prospects are brighter, and I hope to 
greet you the moment of your arrival in New York. I 
shall go thither as soon as I am able. 1 shaH never repose 
till my happiness with Clara is put beyond the power of man 
to defeat. 

But, alas ! what has become of Mary Wilmot. Heaven 
grant that she be safe. Wliile unacquainted with her destiny, 
my happiness will never be complete ; day and night I tor- 
ment myself with fruitless conjectures about her. Yet she 
went ^ay with Sedley, a man of honor, and her lover, and 
with his sister, whose integrity cannot be questioned. Witli 
these she cannot be in danger, or in poverty. This reflec- 
tion consoles me. 

I long to see you my friend. I hope to be of some service 
to you. You will see, by this long detail, that fortune has 
been kind to me. Indeed, when I take a view of the events 
of the last year, I cannot find language for my wonder, my 
blessings are so numerous and exorbitant, my merits so 
slender. 

I wish thee patience to carry thee to the end of this long 
letter. 

Adieu, 


Philie Stanley. 


66 


CLARA HOWARD. 


LETTER XIV. 

To Philip Stanley, 

New York, April 28 . 

Why don’t you come home, my love 9 Are you not quite 
well 9 Tell me when ; the day, the hour, when I may 
expect you. I will put new elegance into my garb ; new 
health into my cheeks ; new light, new love, new joy into 
my eyes, against that happy hour. 

Would to Heaven I were with you. I represented to my 
father what an excellent nurse 1 should prove, but he would 
not suffer me to accompany him. I have a good mind to 
steal away to you, even now ; but are you not already quite 
well*? Yes, you are; or, very soon will be. Time and 
care are all that are required to make you so. 

But, poor Mary — Does not your heart, my Philip, bleed 
for poor Mary *? Can I rob her of so precious a good ; 
bereave her of the gem of which she has so long been in 
secure possession *? Can I riot in bliss, and deck myself in 
bridal ornaments, while she lives pining in dreary solitude, 
carrying to the grave a heart broken by the contumelies of 
the world ; the horrors of indigence and neglect ; and chiefly 
by the desertion of him on whom she doated *? 

Do I not know what it is to love *? Cannot I easily ima- 
gine what it is to bear about an unrequited passion *? Have 
I not known, from infancy, the pleasures of affluence and 
homage *? Cannot I conceive the mortifications to one thus 
bred up, of poverty and labor *? Indeed, my friend, I con- 
ceive them so justly, that till Mary is discovered, and has 
either been found happy, or been made happy, no selfish 
gratification whatever can insure my peace. 

I should not thus be deeply interested for a mere stranger. 
I know your Mary. Your details, full of honesty and candor, 
have made me thoroughly acquainted with her. You have 
given me, in the picture of her life, the amplest picture of a 
human being that I ever was allowed to survey. Her virtue, 
my friend, has been tried. Not without foibles, for w'hich she 
was indebted to her education ; but her signal excellence 
lies in having, in spite of a pernicious education, so few faults. 

My friend, you must find her. As you value my happi- 


CLARA HOWARD. 


67 

ness, you must. Nay, as you value my love. If your zeal 
did not lead you to move heaven and earth in her cause, 
you would be, in my eyes, a wretch. Nay, if you did not — 
But I am straying from the path. I must not think of her, 
least my admiration and my pity for her get the better of my 
love for you. 

Pray, make haste and be well, that you may make as 
happy as she can be, your devoted Clara Howard. 


LETTER XV. 
To Clara Howard. 


Philadelphia, April 30 . 

1 WILL never yield to you, my friend, in zeal for one whom 
I reverence and love so much as Maiy Wilmot. How I 
adore your generous, your noble spirit ! While limited to 
the real good of that girl ; while zealous to confer happi- 
ness on her, vnthout an equivalent injury to others, I ap- 
plaud, and will strive to emulate your generosity. 

An incident has just occurred, that seems to promise some 
intelligence concerning her. It has made me very uneasy. 
I am afraid she is not happy. I am afraid she is — is not 
happy ; I mean, I fear she is — unhappy. But I know not 
what I would say. I am bewildered — by my terrors on her 
account. • Let me tell you what I have heard. Judge for 
yourself. Unhappy the hour that I wrote the last letter 
from Hatfield. Yet who could imagine that the intelligence 
contained in it would suggest so rash, so precipitate a flight ! 

This Sedley, whose fidelity, whose honor 1 have so olten 
applauded, is, I am afraid, a miscreant — a villain. Mary — 
the very thought takes away my breath — is, I fear, a lost, 
undone creature. 

Yet how — Such a fall surely was impossible. Mary 
Wilmot, whose whole life has been exposed to my view — 
whom I have seen hi the most unguarded moments — whose 
indifference to Sedley — whose unconquerable aversion to 
his most honorable and flattering offers I have so often 


CLARA HOWARD. 


witnessed, could not forget herself. Her dignity — I will 
not believe it. 

But what am I saying '? Let me recollect myself, and 
lay distinctly before you the cause of my apprehensions. 

This morning, being disengaged, and the air mild, instead 
of going on with tliis letter, I stole abroad to enjoy the sweet 
breath of heaven. My feet carried me unawares to the 
door of the house in which 1 formerly passed a servitude of 
three years. My old master, Watkins, of time measuring 
memory, has been some time dead. The widow turned 
her stock into revenue, and now lives at her ease. Though 
not eminently good, she is far from being a bad woman. 
She never behaved otherwise than kindly to “ Philip Sober- 
sides,” as she used to call me, and 1 felt somewhat like gra- 
titude, which would not let me pass the door. So I called 
to see the old dame. 

I found her by a close-stove in the parlor, knitting a blue 
stocking — “ Lack a day !” said she, “ why, as Fs a living 
soul, this is our Philip !” 

After the usual congratulations and inquiries were made, 
she proceeded — “ Why, what a fine story is this, Philip, 
that we hear of you 9 — Why, they say you’ve grown a rich 
man’s son, and are going to be married to a fine rich great 
lady, from some other country.” 

I avoided a direct answer. She continued — “ Ah ! dear 
me, we all thought you were going to be married to poor 
Molly Wilmot, the mantuamaker — Nay, for the matter o’ 
that, my poor dear man, I remember, said as how, that if so 
be we’d wait a year or so, we should see things turn up so, 
that you and her should be married already, at that time ; 
and that, I remember, was just as your time was up. But 
Molly (with a very significant air this was said) has carried 
her goods to a much worse market, it seems.” 

“ Why, know you any thing of Miss Wilmot'?” 

“ Why, I don’t know but as I does. I doesn’t know 
much to her advantage tliough, you may depend, Philip.” 

I was startled — “ What do you know of her '? — Tell me, 
I beseech you, all you know.” 

“ Why, I don’t know much, not I ; but Peggy, my nurse, 
said something or other about her, yesterday. She drank 
tea with me ” 


CLARA HOWARD. 


69 

“ Pray,” said 1, impatiently, “ what said your nurse of 
Miss Wilmot 

“ Why, I don’t know as I ought to tell — ” 

But I will not teaze you, Clara, as I was tired with the 
jargon of the old woman. I will give you the sum of her 
intelligence in my own words. 

The nurse had lately been in the family of Mr. Kalm, of 
Germantown, between which and that of Mrs. Valentine, I 
have long known that much intimacy subsisted. Sedley, it 
seems, passed through tliis city about three weeks ago, and 
spent a day at Mr. Kalm’s. At dinner, when the nurse was 
present, the conversation turned upon the marriage of Sed- 
ley, which, it seems, was just concerted with the daughter of 
a wealthy family in Virginia. The lady’s name was men- 
tioned, but the nurse forgot it. 

Mrs. Kalm, who is noted for the freedom of her dis- 
course, reminded Mr. Sedley of the mantuamaker who elop- 
ed with him from Abingdon last autumn, and jestingly in- 
quired into her present condition. Sedley dealt in hints and 
innuendoes, which imported that he was on as good terms 
with Molly Wilmot as he desired to be ; that all his wishes 
with respect to her were now accomplished ; that she knew 
her own interest too well to allow any obstruction to his mar- 
riage to come from her ; that she would speedily resume 
her customary station in society, as the cause of her present 
disappearance was likely to be soon removed. 

I will not torment you or myself by dwelling on further 
particulars. My informant was deplorably defective in the 
means of imparting any clear and consistent meaning. An 
hour was employed in recollecting facts and answering ques- 
tions, all which, taken together, imported nothing less than 
that an improper connexion had for some months subsisted 
between Sedley and my friend — a connexion of such a na- 
ture as was not consistent with his marriage with another. 

Comfort me — counsel me, my angel. I gathered from 
the beldame’s tale, the probability at least, that Mary Wil- 
mot was still in this city. Shall I seek her ? — shall 1 9 — 
Tell me, in short, what I must believe 9 what I shall do f 

Philip Stanley. 


7 


70 


CLARA HOWARD. 


LETTER XVI. 

To Philip Stanley. 

New York, May 2. 

Ah ! my friend, art thou so easily misled 9 Does slander 
find in thee a dupe of her most silly and extravagant con- 
trivances 9 An old nurse’s envious and incoherent tale ! At 
second hand, too, with all the deductions and embellishments 
which must cleave to every story, as it passes thi’ough the 
imagination of two gossips ! 

Art thou not ashamed of thyself, Philip To impute black 
pollution to tlie heart whose fortitude, whose purity, so many 
years of trial have attested, on the authority of a crazy bel- 
dame repeating the malignant inferences, and embellishing 
the stupid hints of an old nurse. Sedley is a villain and a 
slanderer. Had I been present when he thought proper to 
blast the fame of the innocent and absent, I should not have 
controled my indignation — I should have cast the furious lie 
in his teeth. 

And is it possible, my friend, that on such evidence as 
this you build your belief that Mary has become an abandoned 
creature ^ — I am ashamed of such credulity. She is in the 
same city, you believe, yet sit idly in your chamber, lament- 
ing that depravity which exists only in your fancy, and find- 
ing in such absurd and groundless suspicions, a reason for 
withholding that property which, whether she be vile as dirt, 
or bright as heaven, is equally her right. 

Seek her out this moment — ^never rest till you have found 
her — restore to her her own property — tender her your 
counsel, your aid. Mention me to her as one extremely 
anxious to cultivate her good opinion, and enjoy her friend- 
ship. Do this, Philip, instantly, I exhort, I entreat, 1 com- 
mand you ; and let me know the result. 

Clara Howard. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


71 


LETTER XVII. 

To Clara Howard. 

Philadelphia, May 4. 

I HAVE just returned from Germantown, and find your 
letter on my table. Thank heaven, I have not merited all 
your rebukes. That anxiety to ascertain the truth, and that 
unwillingness to trust to such witnesses as gossips and nurses, 
which you think I ought to feel, I really have felt. My last 
was written in the first tumult of my thoughts. The moment 
I laid down the pen, and began more deliberately to reflect 
upon the subject, doubts and hopes thronged into my imagi- 
nation ; I resolved to bend every nerve to discover the re- 
treat of Mary, and ascertain her true situation. 

As Sedley was so well known to Mrs. Kalm, I resolved to 
visit that lady. I had no acquaintance with her, but I over- 
looked the impropriety of my application, and set out imme- 
diately to Germantown. 

Being admitted to an apartment, in which I found that lady 
alone, I introduced myself in some confused way, I scarcely 
know how; and inquired whether she knew the person 
whom Sedley was about to marry, and whether she could 
afford me any information of the place where Mary Wilmot 
was likely to be found 9 

She answered with great civility, that Sedley’s sister was 
her dear friend ; that Mrs. Valentine resided at this time in 
New England ; that her brother passing lately through this 
city, in order to join her, had spent part of a day with 
Mr. Kalm ; that Sedley had given his friends leave to con- 
sider him as upon the eve of marriage, but had not thought 
proper to disclose to them the name and family of the lady ; 
that they were totally in the dark on both these heads, but 
were inclined to believe that she was a woman of Boston ; 
that as to Mary Wilmot, she knew nothing of her or her 
affairs. 

Mrs. Kalm’s curiosity was somewhat excited by the sin- 
gularity of my introduction, and she soon became inquisitive 
in her turn. Encouraged by her frank and communicative 


72 


CLARA HOWARD. 


humor, I ventured to explain unreservedly the motive of my 
inquiries. She smiled at the impression which the tale of 
the nurse and gossip had made on my fears. 

“ Your uneasiness,” said she, “ was witliout any founda- 
tion. Perhaps we might have jestingly talked of Miss Wil- 
mot’s elopement with Sedley, because his pretensions to that 
girl are pretty well known ; but I am not now to be told that 
your friend was, on that journey, the companion not of the 
brother, but the sister ; and that Miss Wilmot’s reputation 
and virtue could not be safer under her own guardianship 
than under IVIrs. Valentine’s — besides, there is not a man 
in the world of sti’icter principles than Sedley. — What you 
have heard, or something like it, might actually have passed 
at that dinner ; but no one could have construed it in a way 
injurious to Sedley or your friend, but wdio was wholly un- 
acquainted with the parties, or who was very hungry after 
slander. 

“ Sedley certainly talked as if he knew more of Miss 
Wilmot than he just then thought fit to disclose. — What he 
said was accompanied with nods and smiles of some signifi- 
cance ; but I should just as readily have put an evil con- 
struction on his hints, had he been talking of his own sister. 
All the world knows that a woman of merit would be sure to 
receive from Sedley, exactly the treatment which an affec- 
tionate brother would be disposed to give. 

“ As to Miss Wilmot’s disappearance, I never knew till now' 
tliere was any tiling mysterious or suspicious in her conduct. 
It is true, she left her former residence ; but considering in 
whose company she left it, and the privacy and solitude in 
which she had previously lived, I was inclined to think she 
had risen into sight and notice, and instead of retiring from 
observation, had come forth more conspicuously than ever. 
This was necessarily the case, if she lived or associated, as 
she probably did, with Mrs. Valentine. 

“ When Sedley talked of the cause of her journey being 
removed, and her reassuming her station among us, I con- 
fess he was unintelligible to me. I knew of no cause for her 
journey but her own pleasure, and perhaps Mrs. Valentine’s 
entreaties. The construction which a casual hearer seems 
to have put upon his words was foolish and preposterous ; 
indeed, it is highly offensive to me, since it pre-supposed 


CLARA HOWARD. 73 

that I could patiently hear any one utter such insinuations at 
my table.” 

Mrs. Kahn seemed much hurt at the misapprehensions of 
the nurse, and was very earnest in vindicating Sedley’s in- 
nocence. She bore testimony to the undeviating and ex- 
emplary propriety of Miss Wilmot’s conduct, ever since it 
had been within the reach of her observation. 

Thou wilt imagine, Clara, with what unspeakable delight 1 
listened to her eulogy. I was astonished at my own folly, 
in drawing such extravagant conclusions. My own heart 
pleads guilty to thy charges of credulity and precipitation ; 
but 1 hope I shall not be so grossly or so easily deceived a 
second time. 

Mrs. Kalm could give me no account of the present situ- 
ation of my friend ; but she gave me Mrs. Valentine’s ad- 
dress. From her, no doubt, I shall be able to obtain all the 
information I want. I was a stupid wretch not sooner to in- 
quire among the lady’s numerous friends where she was to 
be found. I will write to her immediately. 

Congratulate me, my beloved, on this opening of brighter 
prospects for one who is equally and deservedly dear to both 
of us. Unless you make haste to write, I shall receive your 
congratulations in person, for I feel myself already well 
enough to travel in your company to the world’s end. Adieu. 

Philip Stanley. 


LETTER XVIIL 
To Clara Howard. 

Philadelphia, May 5. 

Though I am so soon to be with you, and have received 
no answer to my last, yet I cannot be alone in my chamber, 
and be widiin reach of pen and paper, without snatching 
them up and talking to my friend thus. This is a mode of 
conversing I would willingly exchange for the more lively 
and congenial intercourse of eyes and lips ; but ’tis better 
than total silence. 


7 * 


74 


CLARA HOWARD. 


What are you doing now 9 Busy, I suppose, in turning 
over the leaves of some book — some painter of manners or 
of nature is before you — some dramatist, or poet, or historian, 
furnishes you with occupation. The day here is celestially 
benign — such only as our climate can know. It is not less 
splendid and serene with you, so you have strolled into that 
field, which is not excelled for the grandeur of its scenery, 
the balsamic and reviving virtue of its breezes, its commo- 
diousness of situation for the purpose of relieving those con- 
demned to a city life, by any field on this globe. The battery 
— what a preposterous name ! Yet not the only instance of 
a mound serving at once the double purpose of pleasure and 
defence. Did you not say the bulwarks of Paris were 
pleasure walks 9 You have been in Sicily and Provence, 
did you ever meet with sun, sky, and water, more magni- 
ficent, and air more bland than you are now contemplating 
and breathing 9 for methinks I see that lovely form gliding 
along the green, or fixed in musing posture at the rails, and 
listening to the rippling of the waters. 

Perhaps some duty keeps you at home. You expect a 
visitant ; are seated at your toilet, adding all the enchant- 
ments of drapery, the brilliant hues and the flowing train of 
muslin, to a form whose excellence it is to be beautiful when 
unadorned, and yet to gain from every ornament new beauty. 

What a rare lot is yours, Clara ! — One of the most for- 
tunate of women art thou. Wealth, affluence, is yours ; but 
wealth is only the means of every kind of happiness ; it is 
not happiness itself. But you have not only the tools, but 
the inclination to use them. In no hands could riches be 
placed so as to produce more felicity to the possessor, and 
to tliose within reach of her munificence. 

Which is the most unerring touchstone of merit — poverty 
or riches 9 Ingeniously to supply the place, or gracefully to 
endure the want of riches, is the privilege of great minds. 
To retain humility and probity in spite of riches, and to effect 
the highest good of ourselves and otliers by the use of tliem, 
is the privilege of minds still greater. The last privilege is 
Clara’s; the first, vanity has sometimes said — ^no matter 
what. It was, indeed, vanity that said it — vanity, that is now 
humbled into wisdom and self distrust. So far from bearing 
poverty with dignity, I cannot justly call my former situation 


CLARA HOWARD. 


75 

by that name, and was far from bearing even the moderate 
privations of that state with fortitude. 

And are, indeed, these privations forever at an end*? Is 
the harder test of wisdom, the true use of riches, now to be 
imposed upon me It is — Clara Howard and all that she 
inherits will be mine. I ought to tremble for the conse- 
quences of exposure to such temptations ; and if I stood 
alone I should tremble ; but, in reality, whatever is your’s, or 
your father’s gift, is not mine. Your power over it shall be 
unlimited and uncontroled by me; and this, not more from 
the equity of your claim to the sole power, than from the 
absolute rectitude with which that power will be exercised 
by you. Had I millions of my own acquiring, I should deem 
it no more tlian my duty to resign to you the employment of 
them. 

Ah ! my divine friend, I will be no more than your agent 
— your almoner ; one whose aid may make charity less toil- 
some to you — may free the pleasures of beneficence from 
some of those pains by which they are usually attended. I 
will go before you, plucking up thorns and removing asperi- 
ties from the path that you choose. All my recompense shall 
be the consciousness in whose service I labor, and whose 
pleasures I enhance. 

They tell us that ambition is natural to man ; that no pos- 
session is so pleasing as power and command. I do not find 
it so. I would fain be a universal benefactor. The power 
that office or riches confers is requisite to this end ; but 
power in infirm hands is productive only of mischief. I who 
know my own frailty, am therefore undesirous of power — so 
far from wishing to rule others, it is my glory and my boast 
to submit to one whom I deem unerring and divine. Clara’s 
will is my law ; her pleasure the science that I study ; her 
smiles tlie reward, next to an approving God, my soul prizes 
most dearly. 

Lideed, my friend, before you honor me with your choice, 
you should contrive to exalt me or lower yourself. Some 
parity there ought to be between us — an angel in the heavens 
like thee, is not a fit companion for a mere earthworm like 


Philip Stanley. 


76 


CLARA HOWARD. 


LETTER XIX. 

To Philip Stanley. 

New YoRii, May 5. 

Ah, hah ! give them to me. Two letters at once — ^this 
is unexpected happiness. Charming papers ! Lie there, 
and still the little rebel that will not allow me speech. 

And thinkest thou my lips said this, as my father threw the 
letters into my lap9 — No such thing. My heart was mutinous, 
’tistrue; but no one present — there were many present — 
was aware of its tumults, except, indeed, my mother — her 
observant eye saw what was passing within ; or rather, she 
guessed from the superscription what I felt, and therefore 
considerately furnished me with an excuse for retiring. 

“ Clara, my dear, I imagine your good woman has come 
I think I saw her go down the steps — my friends will excuse 
you for a moment.” 

I hastily withdrew, and dien, Philip, having gained the 
friendly covert of my chamber, I eagerly — rapturously, 
kissed and read thy letters. 

I thought it would prove a mere slander ; and yet I was 
uneasy. The mere possibility of its truth shocked and dis- 
tressed me more than I can tell; but thy intelligence has not 
only removed the disquiet which thy foregoing letter had 
produced, but, in reality, has given me uncommon pleasure. 
I flatter myself that y our letter to Mrs. Valentine will receive 
a speedy and satisfactory answer. 

Human life, Philip, is a motley scene. Thou wilt not 
thank me for the novelty of that remark ; but the truth of it, 
I think, has received new illustration in the little incidents on 
which thy last letters have commented. Had not the old 
nurse’s tale incited thee to inquiry, thou wouldst not, at this 
moment, have been in the way to gain any knowledge of 
poor Mary — had not thy sad prognostics filled me witli 
melancholy, my mother’s attention would not have been 
excited to the cause of my uneasiness. 

I did not conceal from her tlie cause. I made her pretty 
well acquainted with the history of Mary. She was deeply 


CLARA HOWARD. 


77 

interested in tlie story I told and suggested many inquiries 
respecting her, which 1 had overlooked. She has made me 
extremely anxious as to some particulars, on which perhaps 
you can give me the desired information. 

Pray tell me what you know of the history of her family, 
before her father’s leaving Europe. Where was he born 9 
Where lived he 9 What profession did he follow 9 What 
know you of the history ol Mary’s mother 9 

Excuse me for confining myself, at present, to these 
inquiries. Tell me all you know on this subject, and I will 
then acquaint you with the motive of my inquisitiveness. I 
shall expect to hear from you on Thursday morning. 

Adieu. Be careful of thyself, if thou lovest thy 

Clara Howard. 


LETTER XX. 

To Clara Howard. 

Philadelphia, May 8. 

1 AM at a loss, dear Clara, to account for thy questions j 
but I will answer them to the utmost of my power. The 
same questions frequently occm’red to me, in my intercourse 
with the Wilmots. It was natural, you know, to suppose 
that they had left relations in their native country, with whom 
it might be of some advantage to renew their intercourse. 

Mary was ten years old when her father took up his abode 
in Delaware ; but he had been aheady five years in the 
country, so that you will easily perceive she was not likely 
to possess much personal knowledge of events, previous to 
their voyage. Her mother’s death happened just before 
their removal to Wilmington. It appears to have been the 
chief cause of that removal. 

Your letter has put me on the task of recollection. I am 
sorry that I am able to collect and arrange very few circum- 
stances, such as you demand. The Wilmots were either 
very imperfectly acquainted with the history of their parents, 
or were anxious to bury their history in oblivion. The first 
was probably the situation of the son ; but I have often 


CLARA HOWARD. 


78 

suspected, from the contradictions and evasions of which 
Mary was at different times guilty, when this subject was 
talked of between us, that the daughter pretended ignorance, 
for the sake of avoiding the mortification of telling the truth. 
When once urged pretty closely on this head, she indeed, 
told me the subject was a painful one to her ; that she knew 
notliing of her European kindred, which would justify the 
searcliing them out ; and that she would hold herself obliged 
to me if I never recalled past events to her remembrance. 
After this injunction I was silent ; but in the course of num- 
berless conversations afterwards, hints were casually dropped, 
which afforded me, now and then, a glimpse into their family 
history. 

When Mary spoke of her father, it was always with 
reverence for his talents, gratitude for his indulgence to her, 
and compassion for that frailty of character, which made 
him seek in dissipation relief from sorrow on account of the 
death of a wife whom he adored ; and a refuge, as she 
sometimes obscurely intimated, from some calamity or hu- 
miliation wliich befel him in his native country. 

My friend’s heart always throbbed, and her eyes were 
filled with tears, whenever her mother was remembered. 
She took a mournful pleasure in describing her mother’s 
person and manners, in which she was prone to believe 
all human excellence was comprised. Her own melancholy 
temper and gloomy destiny she imagined to have descended 
to her by inheritance ; and she once allowed me to collect 
from her discourse, that her mother had died the victim of 
some early and heavy disappointment. 

We were once, the winter before last, conversing by an 
evening fire, on that most captivating topic, ourselves. 
Having said sometliing of my attachment to my country, 
and especially to the hill side, where I first drew breath, and 
inquired into her feelings in relation to the same objects — 

“ Alas ! ” said she, “ I should be puzzled to say to what 
country 1 belonged — I am a German by my father, English 
by my mother. I was born at a hotel in Paris ; I was 
nursed by a woman of Nice, where 1 passed my infancy; and 
my youth and womanhood, and probably my whole life, 
belong to America. Now, what is the country, Germany, 
England, France, Italy, or America, wliich I have a right 


CLARA HOWARD. 


79 

to call my own ? The earliest object of my recollection 
is the face of my nurse, who accompanied us in all our 
wanderings, and who died just before my father, on Brandy- 
wine. The olives, the orange-walks, and the seashore 
scenery of Savoy, are still fresh in my remembrance. 
Should I \isit them again, no doubt my feelings would be 
strongly affected ; but I never expect to visit them. ” 

‘‘ But your father’s, your mother’s natal spot would have 
some charms, methinks, to one of your sensibility.” 

“ Some influence, no doubt, the contemplation would 
have, but no charms. Strange, if I should ever have an 
opportunity of trying their effect upon my feelings.” 

“ You are acquainted then with the birth-place of your 
fatlier and mother 9” 

“ Yes, I have heard them described so often, and with 
such minuteness, that I should recognize tliem, 1 think, at 
any distance of time. — My father was born in the Grey 
Street, next to the chapel of St. Anne, at Altona. My 
mother and family have subsisted, from the days of William 
tlie Norman, at a spot, five miles from Taunton, in De- 
vonshire.” 

I was in hopes that these particulars were peliminary to 
more interesting disclosures ; but my friend now changed 
the subject of conversation, and would not be brought back 
to the point I wished. 

Mr. Wilmot was a man of liberal education and cultivated 
taste. This appears from the representations of his daugh- 
ter, and likewise from several books which she preserved 
by connivance of his creditors, and which are enriched by 
many notes and memorandums in her father’s handwriting. 
These betoken an enlarged mind and extensive knowledge. 
She has likewise a sort of journal, kept by him when a mere 
youth, during two or three year’s residence in Boulogne, in 
the character, as I suspect, of a commercial agent. — This 
journal, which I have occasionally seen, affords many proofs 
of a sprightly and vigorous mind. 

This, my friend, is the whole of my present recollections 
on this subject. I am anxious to know what has suggested 
your inquiry. Is your mother acquainted with any of the 
family in Europe — With the history of Wilmot before he 
ca\ne hither 1 Pray tell me all you know in your next. 
A.flieu, Philip Stanley. 


80 


CLARA HOWARD. 


LETTER XXL 
To Philip Stanley. 

New York, May 10. 

As soon as I had read your letter, I hurried to my moth” 
er. All her conjectures are ascertained — a native of Hol- 
stein — family abode near Taunton — victim of some early 
distress ! These circumstances place the truth beyond con- 
troversy — but I will tell you the story with somewhat more 
order. 

I told you that my mother’s curiosity was awakened by 
the effect of your gloomy prognostics. I told her every 
thing respecting Mary Wilrnot, but her love for you. 

“ Wilmot, Wilrnot,” said she, “ an English family — came 
over twenty years ago. I think I know something of them. 
Their story was a singular one — a disastrous one. I should 
like to know more of their history. I think it not improba- 
ble that these are the same Wilmots with whose history I 
am perfectly acquainted — nay more, who were no very dis- 
tant relations of our own. Pray write to Philip, and get 
from him all he knows of their early adventures. Inquire 
if the father was from Holstein, and the mother from Devon- 
shire, and if Mary was born at Paris 

You see, my friend, your letter has satisfactorily confirm- 
ed these guesses ; and now will I relate to you the early 
history of this family, in the words of my mother. Mary 
will be greatly astonished when she comes to find how much 
you know of her family — much more, ’tis probable, than 
she herself knows — and to discover that the nearest relation 
she has in the world is myself. Being alone with "my mo- 
ther on Thursday evening, she fulfilled the promise she had 
made, to tell me all she knew of the Wilmots, in these 
words — 

“ xMary Anne was the only daughter of my father’s only 
brother, consequently she was my cousin. She was nearly 
of my own age, and being the only child of a man respect- 
able for birth and property, and my near relation, and par- 
ticularly of my own sex, we were intimately connected at 


CLARA HOWARD. 


81 


an early age. She lost her mother in her infancy, and our 
family having several daughters, our house was thought more 
suited to her education than her father’s. She lived with 
me and my sisters till she was eighteen years of age, receiv- 
ing from us, our brothers, and our parents, exactly the same 
treatment which a real sister and daughter received. 

“ There was no particular affection between Mary and 
myself ; our tempers did not chance to coincide — her taste 
led her to one species of amusement, and mine to another. 
This difference stood in the way of that union of interests 
which, however, took place between her and my elder sister. 
Still, there were few persons in the world for whom I had a 
more ardent esteem ; or more tender affection, than for my 
cousin Mary Anne. She parted from us at the age of 
eighteen, in obedience to the summons of her father, who 
wished to place her at the head of his household. We lived 
in the north, and Mr. Lisle lived in Devonshire, so that 
we had little hope of any intercourse but by letter. Tiis 
intercourse was very punctually maintained between her and 
my sister, and it was by means of this correspondence that 
we obtained the knowledge of subsequent events. 

“ On leaving our family, my cousin entered into a world 
of strangers ; a sphere very incongenial with her temper and 
habits. So long a separation had deprived the parental 
character of all those claims to reverence and confidence, 
which are apt to arise when the lives of father and daugh- 
ter are spent under the same roof. She saw in my uncle a 
man, who, in many essential particulars both of speculation 
and of practice, was at variance with herself, and to w'hom 
nature had given prerogatives, which her fearful temper fore- 
boded would be oftener exerted to her injury than benefit. 
His inmates, his companions, his employments, his sports, 
were dissonant with all the feelings she was most accustom- 
ed to cherish ; in short, her new situation was in the highest 
degree irksome. 

“ She naturally looked abroad for that comfort which she 
could not find at home ; she formed intimacies with several 
persons of her own sex, among others, with Miss Saunders, 
the daughter of a Bristol merchant, with whom she spent as 
much time as her father would allow her to spend. Her 
8 


CLARA HOWARD. 


winter months were generally passed in the society of that 
young lady at Bristol, while her friend in summer was her 
guest in the country. 

“ It was at the house of Mr. Saunders that she became 
acquainted with Veelmetz, or Wilmot, a young man of un- 
common elegance and insinuation. He was a native of 
Germany, but had received his early education in England. 
He had at this time been for two or three years chief, or 
confidential clerk, in an English mercantile house at Bou- 
logne ; but made occasional excursions on behalf of his em- 
ployers to the neighboring countries. Some concerns de- 
tained him a few months at Bristol, and being on a familiar 
footing with the family of Saunders, he there became ac- 
quainted with my cousin. 

“ On the first interview my cousin was in love with the 
stranger. It is impossible to tell how far the laws of strict 
honor were observed by Wilmot in his behavior to my 
cousin, either before or after the discovery of her attachment 
to him — certain it is, that his heart was devoted to another, 
at the period of his interview with Mary Anne ; that she at 
all times earnestly acquitted him of any duplicity or treache- 
ry towards her, and ascribed the unfortunate cause of their 
mutual shame and embarrassment to some infatuation ; in 
consequence of which, a man who concealed not his love 
and engagement to another, and without the sanction or the 
promise of marriage, prevailed on her to forget her dignity 
and her duly. 

“ Both parties deserved blame — which deserved it most, 
and how far their guilt might be extenuated or atoned for 
by the circumstances attending it, it is impossible to tell. 
Mary Anne was a great, a mixed, and doubtless a faulty cha- 
racter. The world in general was liberal of its eulogies on 
tlie probity, as well as on the graces and talents of Wilmot. 
His subsequent behavior lays claim to some praise ; but his 
fatal meeting with my cousin proved that the virtue of both 
was capable of yielding, when the integrity of worse people 
would easily have stood firm. 

“ About the same time Wilmot returned to Boulogne, and 
my cousin accompanied her father to Paris. The lady to 
whom the former was betrothed, was the daughter of the 
principal in that house where Wilmot had long been a ser- 


CLARA HOWARD. 


83 


vant, and in which, in consequence of his merits, he was now 
shortly to become a son and partner. The nuptial day was 
fixed. 

“ Before the arrival of that day, he wrote a letter to Mary 
Anne, acquainting her with his present situation, reminding 
her that he never practised any fraud or concealment in his 
intercourse with her, yet, nevertheless, offering to come, and 
either by an open application to her fatlier, or by a clandes- 
tine marriage, prevent any evil that might threaten her safety 
or her reputation. 

“ This letter placed my cousin in the most distressful 
dilemma that can be conceived. Her heart was still fondly 
devoted to him that made this offer ; a fair fame was pre- 
cious in her eyes ; her father’s wrath was terrible. She 
knew that the accident which Wilmot was willing to provide 
against, would soon inevitably befall her ; yet in her answer to 
his letter the possibility of this accident was denied, her at- 
tachment was denied, and he was earnestly conjured to com- 
plete his own happiness and that of a worthier woman. 

“ There were many generous pleas by which my cousin 
might have accounted for her conduct ; she knew that the 
marriage he offered would never be crowned with her 
fatlier’s consent ; that, on the contrary, his hatred and ven- 
geance would pursue them for ever ; that Wilmot would 
thereby forfeit the honor already plighted to another — would 
inflict exquisite misery on that other and on himself, and 
would for ever cut himself off from tliat road to fortune 
which had now been opened to him. 

“ She was candid enough to confess that these considera- 
tions, though powerful, did not singly dictate her conduct. 
Her heart was in reality full of grief — despondency and hor- 
ror took possession of her w hole soul. She hoped to pro- 
tract the discovery of her personal condition to a very late 
period, and then, when further concealment was hopeless, 
designed to put a violent end to life and all its cares. 

“ Meanwhile, Wilmot’s conscience being somewhat re- 
lieved by my cousin’s answer, he gave himself up without 
restraint to file pleasurable prospects before him. The day 
of happiness was near at hand ; he had little leisure for any 
thing but the offices of love and tenderness, and was engaged 
on the evening of a fine day to accompany his mistress, with 


84 


CLARA HOWARD. 


a numerous party, on a rural excursion. The carriage, 
ready to receive them, was at the door, and he only waited 
in a court before the house till the lady had adjusted her 
dress for the occasion. 

“ His mistress, Adela, having made the requisite adjust- 
ments, came out. She looked around for her lover in vain. 
Some accident, it was easily imagined, had called him for a 
few moments away. She collected patience to wait ; but 
she waited and expected in vain — night came, and one day 
succeeded another, but Wilmot did not appear. Inquiries 
were set on foot, and messengers were despatched, but Wil- 
mot had enthely vanished. 

“ Some intelligence was at last gained of him. It appear- 
ed, that while walking to and fro in the court, two persons 
had come up to him, and after a short dialogue had retired 
with him to an inn ; there they had been closeted for a few 
minutes, after which they came fortli, and mounting horses 
that stood at the gate, hastily left the city together. 

“ The suspense and anxiety which this circumstance pro- 
duced in tlie lady and her family, may be easily imagined. 
Their conjectures wandered from one object to another, 
without obtaining satisfaction — tliey could gain, from all their 
inquiries, no knowledge of the persons who had summoned 
the young man away — ^they inferred that the messengers 
were the bearers of no good tidings, since the attendants at 
the inn reported that Wilmot’s countenance and motions be- 
trayed the utmost consternation, on descending from the 
chamber where the conference was held. 

“ Tiieir suspense was at length terminated by the return 
of the fugitive himself. Wan, sorrowful, and drooping, a 
horseman languidly alighted about ten days after Wilmot’s 
disappearance at the gate — it was Wilmot himself. The 
family flocked about, eager to express tlieir joy, terror, and 
surprise. He received their greetings with affected cheer- 
fulness ; but presently requesting an interview witli Adela, 
retired with her to her closet. 

“ I suppose, my dear, you conjecture the true cause of all 
these appearances. My cousin’s secret was betrayed by an 
unfaithful confidant to her father, whose rage at the discove- 
ry was without bounds. He rushed into his daughter’s 
presence in a transport of fury, and easily extorted from her 


CLARA HOWARD. 


85 


the author of her disgrace. Without a moment’s delay, he 
ordered horses, and, in company with a friend, made all 
possible haste to Boulogne. The daughter’s uncertainty as 
to the cause and object of his journey, was ended by the re- 
turn of Mr. Lisle in company with Wilmot. The alterna- 
tive offered to the youth, was to meet the father with pistols, 
or to repair his child’s dishonor by marriage. Mr. Lisle’s 
impetuosity overbore all my cousin’s opposition, and Wilmot, 
the moment he discovered her true situation, was willing to 
repair the wrong to the utmost of his power. 

“ The ceremony being performed, Mr. Lisle’s pride was 
so far satisfied ; but his rage demanded nothing less than 
eternal separation from his daughter. Wilmot was obliged 
to procure lodgings in a different quarter, and my poor 
cousin left her father’s presence, for the last time, with his 
curses ringing in her ears. 

“ The horror occasioned by these events brought on a 
premature labor, the fruit of which did not perish, as might 
have been expected, but has survived to this day, and is no 
other than your Mary Wilmot. 

“ Poor Wilmot had an arduous office still to perform ; 
these events, and his new condition, were to be disclosed to 
Adela. This it was easy to do by letter ; but he rather 
chose to do full justice to his feelings in a formal interview; 
and this was the purpose for which he returned to Boulogne. 

“ It is not possible to imagine a more deplorable situation 
than tliat in which Wilmot was now placed ; he was torn 
for ever from the object of his dearest affections ; at the mo- 
ment when all obstacles were about to disappear, and a few 
days were to unite those hearts which had cherished a mu- 
tual passion from infancy, he was compelled to pay the forfeit 
of past transgressions, by binding liimself to one who had his 
esteem, but not his love. Adela was the pride and delight 
of her family, and Wilmot had made himself scarcely a less 
fervent interest in their affections ; that privilege he was now 
compelled to resign, and by the same act, to break the heart 
of the daughter, and excite unextinguishable animosity in the 
bosom of her friends. Every tie dear to the human heart 
was now violently broken — every flattering scheme of honoj- 
and fortune baffled and defeated ; nor had he the consola- 
8 * 


CLARA HOWARD. 


m 

tion to reflect, that by these sacrifices he had secured the 
happiness of at least one human being. My cousin was an 
involuntary actor in this scene ; she had been overborne by 
her father’s menaces, and even by the expostulations aiTtl 
entreaties of Wilmot himself. The irrevocable ceremony 
was hurried over without a moment’s deliberation or delay, 
and before she had time to collect her thoughts and form her 
resolutions, to recover from the first confusions of surprise 
and affiight, she found herself a wife and a mother. 

It was, perhaps, merely the very conduct which my 
cousin’s feelings taught her to pursue, that secured her ulti- 
mately some portion of happiness. All the fault of ^e first 
transgression she imputed to herself ; Wilmot was t^fie inno- 
cent and injured person ; she only was the injurer afid crimi- 
nal. Those upbraidings which the anguish of his heart 
might have prompted him to use, were anticipated, dwelt 
upon, and exaggerated ; all the miseries of this alliance pass- 
ed in as vivid hues before her imagination, as before his. 
These images plunged her into the most profound and pitia- 
ble sorrow. 

“ Wilmot’s generosity would by no means admit that her’s 
only was the guilt ; on the contrary, his candor, awakened by 
her -Example, was busy in aggravating his own crime. His 
heart was touched by the proofs of her extreme dejection — 
her disinterested regard ; he reflected that her portion of evil 
was at least equal to his own. Her sensibility to reputation, 
her sense of right, her dependence on her father for the 
means of subsistence, her attachment to her country and 
kindred, all contributed to heighten her peculiar calamity, 
since she believed her fame to be blasted forever ; since 
her conscience reproached her with all the guilt of their 
intercourse ; since her father had sworn never to treat her 
as his child ; since she had lost, in her own opinion, the 
esteem of all her relations and friends, and solemnly vowed 
never to set foot in her native country. 

“ Wilmot’s eflbrts to console his wife produced insensibly, 
a salutary effect on his own feelings. Being obliged to 
search out topics of comfort for her use, they were equally 
conducive to his own, and a habit of regarding objects on 
their brightest side — of considering my cousin as merely a 


CLARA HOWARD. 


87 

subject of tenderness and compassion, somewhat blunted the 
edge of his own misfortunes. 

“ My father took infinite, though unsolicited, pains to 
reconcile tlie parent and child ; but my uncle could not be 
prevailed on to do more than allow Wilmot a small annuity, 
with which he retired to the towm of Nice, and by a recluse 
and frugal life, subsisted, if not with elegance, at least with 
comfort. Mary Anne was extremely backward to cultivate 
the society of her old friends ; tlieir good offices she took 
pains to repel and elude, and her only source of consolation 
with regard to them, appeared to be the hope that they had 
entirely forgotten her. We,, her cousins, were not, however, 
deterred by her repulses, but did every thing in our power 
to befriend her cause with her inexorable father, and to im- 
prove her domestic situation. We had the pleasure to find 
that Wilmot, though his vivacity, his ambitious and enter- 
prising spirit was flown, was an affectionate husband and pro- 
vident father. 

“ At my uncle’s death we had hopes that Mary Anne’s 
situation would be bettered. His will, however, bequeathed 
all his estate to his nephew, my elder brother ; and the Wil- 
mots were deprived even of that slender stipend which they 
had hitherto enjoyed. This injustice was in some degree re- 
paired by my brother, who, as soon as the affairs of the de- 
ceased were arranged, sent a very large present to Wilmot. 
They did not make us acquainted with the motives of their 
new resolutions ; we were merely informed indirectly, that 
on the receipt of this sum, Wilmot repaired with his family to 
some port in France, and embarked for the colonies. Time 
insensibly wore away the memory of these transactions, and 
’tis a long time since my sisters and I have be'en accustomed, 
in reviewing past events, to inquire — ‘ What has become of 
poor Mrs. Wilmot and her children 9 ” 

Such, Philip, was my mother’s relation ; is it not an affect- 
ing one ? — And is, indeed, thy Mary the remnant of this 
family They had several children, but most of them 
found an early grave in Europe, and the eldest, it seems, is 
the sole survivor. We must make haste, my friend, to raise 
her from obscurity, and make her happy. 

Is it not likely that Mary knows nothing of her mother’s 
history ? — Being only ten years old at her death, the child 


CLARA HOWARD. 


88 

would scarcely be made the confidant of such transactions* 
The father, it is likely, would be equally prone to silence on 
such a topic. 

Our fortune is strongly influenced by our ignorance. — 
What can be more lonely and forlorn than the life thy poor 
friend has led Yet had she returned to her mother’s native 
country, and disclosed her relation to the present mistress of 
Littlelisle, she would have been instantly admitted to the 
house and bosom of a fond mother. 

My uncle, to whom I told you the estate of Mary’s grand- 
father was bequeathed, died unmarried, and left his property 
to the sister who was the intimate of Mary Anne, and who 
never lost the tenderest respect for her youthful friend. This 
happened some years after Wilmot’s voyage|to the colonies. 
My aunt being childless and a widow, was extremely solicit- 
ous to discover Mary Anne’s retreat, and restore her, or 
her children, to at least a part of that property, to the whole 
of which their title was, strictly speaking, better than her 
own ; for this end, she made a great many inquiries in Ame- 
rica, but none of them met with success. 

I have written a long letter ; yet I could add much moi’e, 
were I not afraid of losing this post,^so let me hear thy com- 
ments on all these particulars, and tell me, especially, wdien 
I may certainly expect thy return. Adieu. Clara. 


LETTER XXII. 

To Clara Howard. 

Philadelphia, May 11. 

Thanks, a thousand thanks, my beloved friend, for tliy 
story. It has absorbed and overwhelmed every other thought 
and feeling. Since I received it, I have done notliing but 
peruse and ponder on thy letter ; it has opened cheerful 
prospects for my poor friend. Shall we not see her restored 
to her native country, to her original rank, and the affluence 
to which she is entitled by her birth, her education, and her 
former sufferings 9 1 trust w^e shall. 

’Tis impossible to guess how far she is acquainted witli the 


CLARA HOWARD. 


history of her parents; but that and every other doubt will, 
I hope, speedily be put to flight. 

I hope that this is the last letter I shall have occasion to 
write to you — the next time I shall address you will be through 
no such wild and ambiguous medium. 

May I find my Clara all gentleness — all condescension — 
all love ; so, with all his heart, prays her Philip. 


LETTER XXIII. 

To Philip Stanley. 

New York, May 11. 

By the calm tenor of tliis letter, you will hardly judge of 
the state of my mind before I sat down to iviite. To de- 
scribe it would be doing wrong to myself and to you ; I am 
not anxious to pass for better than lam; to hide my weak- 
ness, or to dwell upon my folly. In this letter to paint the 
struggles between reason and passion, would be malong more 
arduous that task which I must assign to you. 

I have formerly concealed these struggles ; my motive was 
not shame. I aimed not to shun contempt by concealing my 
defects, for, alas ! the spirit with which I had to deal model- 
led his opinions by a standard different from mine ; that 
which was selfish and base in my eyes, was praise worthy 
in his. I passed for obdurate and absurd, in proportion as I 
acted in a manner which appeared to me generous and just. 

I concealed these struggles, because I hated to reflect 
upon my own faults ; because they were past, and the better 
thoughts that succeeded were sources of complacency too 
precious to be lost, and attained and preserved with so much 
difficulty, that to review the conflicts which it cost me to gam 
them, would hazard their loss. 

Thus it is at present* 1 write to you not to give utterance 
and new existence to anguish no longer felt ; I write to you 
to tell my present views, and they cannot waver or change. 

My friend, the bearer of this, is your Mary. She is not 
happy — she is not another’s ! She is poor, but good ; and 
no doubt as much devoted to you as ever. Need I point out 
to you the road which you ought to take ? — Need I enforce 


CLARA HOWARD. 


90 

by arguments that duty which compels you to consult her 
happiness, by every honest means 

Could I but inspire you, my friend, with the sentiments 
tliat now possess my heart ; could 1 but make your convic- 
tions at once just and strong, and convert you into a cheerful 
performer of your duty, I should indeed be happy. 

You will wonder by what means Mary has been made 
known to me. I will tell you. I went to pay a visit, long 
since due, to Mrs. Etheridge — it was but yesterday. After 
a cursory discourse, she mentioned that she expected in a 
few minutes to see a lady, who was going on the morrow to 
Philadelphia. I had written to you, and was not unwilling 
to make use of this opportunity; “What,” I asked, “is her 
name, her character, her situation 9” 

“ Mary Wilmot ; she has just come from New Haven, 
where she has passed the winter with a friend. She is amia- 
ble, but unfortunate.” 

You will imagine with what emotions 1 listened to these 
words. For some minutes I was too much surprised to think 
or to speak clearly. My companion noticed my emotion, 
but before she could inquire into the cause, a visitant was 
announced, and Miss Wilmot herself entered the room. 
Being introduced to each other, my name occasioned as 
much surprise and embarrassment as her’s had given to me. 
The interview ended abruptly ; but not till I had so far col- 
lected my thoughts as to request her to be the bearer of a 
letter. She mentioned the place where it might be left, and 
we parted. 

I ought to have acted in a different manner — I ought to 
have asked her company home ; have sought her confi- 
dence ; have unbosomed myself to her, and removed every 
obstacle to her union with you, which might arise from an 
erring judgment or an unwise generosity. 

But I was unfitted for this by the suddenness of our inter- 
view. I had not time to subdue those trembling and mixed 
feelings which the sight of her produced, before she with- 
drew ; and I had not courage enough to visit her a- her 
lodgings, and be the bearer of my own letter. So much 
the more arduous is the task which belongs to you ; my 
deficiencies must be supplied by you. Act uprightly and 
ingenuously, my friend, I entreat you ; seek her presence, 


CLARA HOWARD. 


91 

and shew her this and every other letter from me ; offer 
her — beseech her — compel her to accept your vows. 

Accuse me not of fickleness; acquit me of mean and 
ungenerous behavior. Dream not that reasoning or en- 
treaty will effect any change in my present sentiments. I 
love you, Philip, as I ought to love you — I love your hap- 
piness — your virtue. I resign you to this good girl, as to 
one who deserves you more than I ; whose happiness is 
more dependent on the affections of another than mine is. 
What passion is now wanting in you, time will shortly sup- 
ply. In such a case, you must and will act and feel as you 
ought. 

Let me not hear from you till you have seen her. I know 
whence will arise the failure of your efforts on such an inter- 
view. If she withstand your eloquence, it will be because 
you have betrayed your cause, or because she acts from a 
romantic and groundless generosity with regard to me. The 
last obstacle, it will be my province to remove ; I will write 
to her, and convince her that by rejecting you on my account, 
she does me injury and not benefit, and is an enemy to your 
happiness ; for while Mary lives, and is not bound to an- 
other, I will never be to you any thing but 

Your friend, Clara Howard. 


LETTER XXIV. 

To Clara Howard, 

Philadelphia, May 13. 

MY FRIEND, 

I DO not mean to reason with you. When I tell you that 
you are wrong, I am far from expecting your assent to my 
assertion. I say it not in a tone of bitterness or depreca- 
tion; I am calm, in this respect, as yourself; there is nothing 
to ruffle my calm. We fluctuate and are impatient only 
when doubtful of the future. Our fate being sealed, and an 
end being put to suspense and to doubt, the passions arc 
stiL — sedateness and tranquillity at least are ours. 

There is nothing, I repeat, to ruffle my calm. I am not 


CLARA HOWARD. 


92 

angry with you, for I know the purity and rectitude of your 
motives — your judgment only is misguided ; but that is no 
source of impatience or repining to me ; it is beyond my 
power, or that of time, to rectify your error. 

I do not pity you. You aspire to true happiness, the gift 
of self-approbation and of virtuous forbearance. You have 
adopted the means necessary to tliis end, and the end is 
gained — why then should I pity you 9 — You would not 
derive more happiness from a different decision. Another 
would indeed be more happy, but you would perhaps be 
less ; at any rate, your enjoyments would not be greater 
than +hey now are, for what gratification can be compared 
to that arising from the sense of doing as we ought 9 

I believe you in the wmng, and I tell you so. It is pro- 
per that the truth should be known ; it is proper that my 
opinion, and the grounds of it, should be known to you ; 
not that after this disclosure you vdll think or act differently ; 
of tliat I have not the least hope. 

You are wrong, Clara ; you study, it seems, the good of 
others ; you desire the benefit of this girl, and since her 
happiness lies in being united to me, and in possessing my 
affections, you wish to unite us, and to transfer to her my 
love. 

It cannot be done ; marry her I may, but I shall not love 
her — I cannot love her. This incapacity, you will think, 
argues infirmity and vice in me, and lessens me in your 
esteem. It ought not to produce this effect ; it is a proof of 
neither wickedness nor folly. I cannot love her, because 
my affections are already devoted to one more attractive and 
more excellent than she. 

She has my reverence ; if wedlock unites us, my fidelity 
will never be broken. I will watch over her safety with 
unfailing solicitude ; she shall share every feeling and 
thought ; die ties of the tenderest friendship shall be her’s, 
but — nothing more. 

You will say that more is due to her ; that a just man 
will add to every office of a friend die sanction of ineffable 
passion. 1 will not discuss with you the propriety of loving 
my wife, when her moral and intellectual excellence is un- 
questionable, and when all her love is bestowed upon me. 
I will only repeat, that passion will never be felt. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


93 


What then will be the fruit of marriage Nothing but 
wo to her whom you labor, by uniting us, to make happy. 
You rely, however, on the influence of time and intercourse 
to beget that passion which is now wanting. And tliink you 
that this girl wiD wed a man who loves her not 

She never will. Our union is impracticable, not from 
opposition or refusal on my side, but on hers. As to me, 
my concurrence shall be full, cheerful, zealous ; argument 
and importunity will not be wanting. If they fail, you will 
ascribe their failure to my coldness, ambiguity, or artifice, 
or to mistaken generosity in her with regard to you. The 
last motive, after due representations, will not exist — ^the 
former cause may possess some influence, for I shall act with 
scrupulous sincerity. I shall counterfeit no passion and no 
w’armth ; the simple and unembellished trutli shall be told 
to her, and this, I know, will be an insurmountable impedi- 
ment. 

But suppose, for a moment, this obstacle to disappear, 
and that Mary is happy as the wife of one who esteems her 
indeed, but loves her not. Your end is accomplished — ^you 
proceed to reap the fruits of disinterested virtue, and con- 
template the felicity which is your own work. 

This girl is the only one of God’s creatures worthy of 
benevolence ; no other is entitled to the sacrifice of your 
inclination. None there are in whose happiness you find a 
recompense for evils and privations befalling yourself. 

As to me, I am an inert and insensible atom, or I move 
in so remote a sphere that my pains or pleasures are inde- 
pendent of any will or exertion of yours. But no ; that is 
a dignity of which I must not boast. I am so far sunk into 
depravity, that aU ray desires are the instigations of guilt, 
and all my pleasures those of iniquity. Duty tells you to 
withstand and to thwart, not to gratify my wishes. 

I love you, and ray happiness depends upon your favor. 
Without you, or with another, I can know no joy ; but this, 
in your opinion, is folly and perverseness ; to aspire to your 
favor, when it is beyond my reach, is criminal infatuation ; 
not to love her who loves me, and whose happiness depends 
upon my love, is, you think, cruel and unjust. Be it so ; 
great indeed is my demerit. Wortliless and depraved am 
9 


94 


CLARA HOWARD. 


J, but not single in iniquity and wretchedness ; for the rule 
is fallacious that is not applicable to all others in the same 
circumstances. That conduct which in me is culpable, 
is no less culpable in otliers. Am 1 cruel and unjust in 
refusing my love to one that claims it 9 So are you, whose 
refusal is no less obstinate as to me, as mine with respect to 
another ; and who hearkens not to claims upon your sympa- 
thy, as reasonable as those of Mary on mine. 

And how is it that Miss Wilmot’s merits tower so far above 
mine 9 By placing her happiness in gaining affections which 
are obstinately withheld ; by sacrificing the duty she owes 
herself, her fellow-creatures, and^ her God, to grief, be- 
cause the capricious feelings of another have chosen a dif- 
ferent object of devotion, does she afford no proof of infatua- 
tion and perverseness ? Is she not at least sunk to a level 
with me 

But Mary Wilmot and I are not the only persons affected 
by your decision — ^there is another more entitled to the af- 
fections of this woman than I, because he loves her ; be- 
cause, in spite of coldness, poverty, and personal defects ; 
in spite of repulse from her, the aversion of his family, and 
the inticements of those to whom his birth, fortune, and ex- 
terior accomplishments have made him desirable, continues 
to love her. With regard to this man, is she not exactly in 
the same relation as I am to her ‘I Is it not her duty to 
consult his happiness, and no longer oppose his laudable and 
generous wishes'? For him and for me your benevolence 
sleeps ; with regard to us, you have neither consideration 
nor humanity ; they are all absorbed in the cause of one 
whose merits, whose claim to your sympathy and aid, if it 
be not less, is far from being greater than Sedley’s or mine. 

My path is indeed plain ; I mean to visit Miss Wilmot ; 
but before I see her, I shall transmit to her all the letters 
that have passed between you and me on this subject, and 
particularly a copy of this. She shall not be deceived ; 
she shall judge with all the materials of a right judgment 
before her. I am prepared to devote myself to her will — 
to join my fate to her’s tomorrow I do not fear any less- 
ening of my reverence for her virtues, of that tenderness 
which will be her due, and which it becomes him to feel in 
whose hands is deposited the weal or wo of a woman truly 


CLARA HOWARD. 


95 

excellent. We have wherewith to secure the blessings of 
competence ; with that we will seek the shores of the Ohio, 
and devote ourselves to rural affairs. You and yours I shall 
strive to forget — justice to my wife and to myself will re- 
quire this at my hand. Adieu. Philip Stanley. 


LETTER XXV. 

To Mary Wilmot, 

Philadelphia, May 14. 

I AM impatient to see you, and assure myself from your 
own lips of your welfare ; but there is a necessity for post- 
poning my visit till tomorrow evening — then I will see you ; 
meanwhile, read the inclosed papers. One is a narrative of 
occurrences since the date of my last letter to you from 
Hatfield ; the rest are letters that have been written to Miss 
Howard, or received from her, down to the present hour. — 
Read them, and reflect deeply and impartially on their con- 
tents ; they require no preface or commentary. Make up 
your mind by evening, when I will attend you, with a heart 
overflowing with the affection of a friend, and prepared to 
perform, with zeal and cheerfulness, whatever the cause of 
your felicity requires from Philip Stanley, 


LETTER XXVL 

To Miss Howard. 

Philadelphia, May 16. 

I SIT down to relate what, perhaps, will afford you pain 
instead of pleasure. I know not whether I ought to give 
you pain by this recital. Having no longer the power of 
living for my own happiness, I had wrought up my mind to 
the fervent wish of living for the sake of another. I found 
consolation in the thought of being useful to a human being. 

Now my condition is forlorn and dreary. That sedate 


96 


CLARA HOWARD. 


and mixed kind of happiness on which I had set my wishes 
is denied me. My last hope, meagre and poor as it was, is 
extinguished for ever. The fire that glowed in my bosom 
languishes ; I am like one let loose upon a perilous sea, 
without rudder or sail. 

I have made preparations to leave this city tomorrow by 
the dawn of day, on a journey from which I neither wish 
nor expect to return. I at this moment anticipate the dawn 
of comfort from the scenes of the wilderness and of savage 
life ; I begin to adopt, with seriousness, a plan which has 
often occurred to my juvenile reveries. 

In my uncle’s parlor there hangs a rude outline of the 
continent of North America ; many an hour have I gazed 
upon it, and indulged in that romantic love of enterprise for 
which I have ever been distinguished. My eye used to 
leap from the shore of Ontario, to the obscure rivulets which 
form, by their conflux, the Alleghany. This have I pursued 
through all its windings, till its stream was lost in that of the 
Oliio. Along this river have I steered and paddled my 
«3anoe of bark many hundreds of leagues, till the Mississippi 
was attained. Down that mighty current I allowed myself 
to be passively borne, till the mouths of the Missouri opened 
TO my view. A more arduous task, and one hitherto unat- 
tempted, then remained for me ; in the ardors of my fancy, 
all perils and hardships were despised, and I boldly adven- 
tured to struggle against the current of Missouri, to combat 
the dangers of an untried navigation, of hostile tribes, and 
unknown regions. 

Having gained the remotest sources of the river, I pro- 
ceeded to drag my barque over mountains and rocks, 
till I lighted upon the valleys and streams that tend to the 
north and west. On one of these I again embarked. The 
rivulets insensibly swelled into majestic streams ; lurking 
sands and overhanging cliffs gradually disappeared, and a 
river flowed beneath me, as spacious in its breadth and 
deptli, and wandering tlirough as many realms, as the Wolga 
or the Oronoco. After a tedious navigation of two thousand 
miles, I at last entered a bay of the ocean, and descried the 
shores of the great Pacific. This purpose being gained, I 
was little anxious to return, and allowed my fancy to range 
at will over the boundless field of contingencies, by some of 


CLARA HOWARD. 97 

which I might be transported across the ocean to China, or 
along the coast to the dominions of the Spaniards. 

This scheme, suspended and forgotten for a while, I have 
now resumed. Tomorrow I go hence, in company with a 
person who holds a high rank in the Spanish districts west- 
ward of the Mississippi. 

You will not receive this letter, or be apprised of my in- 
tentions, till after I am gone. 1 shall despatch it at the 
moment of my leaving this city. I shall not write to Mr. 
Howard ; I want not his aid or his counsel. I know that 
his views are very different from mine. I shall awaken 
opposition and remonstrance, which will answer no end but 
to give me torment and inquietude. To you I leave the 
task of informing him of my destiny, or allow him, if you 
please, to be wholly unacquainted with it — either conduct is 
indifferent to me. 

But there is one in whose welfare you condescend to take 
some interest, and of whom I am able to communicate some 
tidings. Some commands which you laid upon me in re- 
lation to Mary have been fulfilled, and I shall now acquaint 
you with the result. 

She sent me your letter not many hours after it was writ- 
ten, with a note informing me of her place of abode, and 
requesting a meeting with me. A letter from you by her 
hands, was a cause of sufficient wonder ; but the contents of 
your letter were far more wonderful than the mode of its 
conveyance. — The handwriting assured me it was yours ; 
the style and sentiments were alien to all that my fancy had 
connected with your name. With these tokens of profound 
indifference to my happiness, of ineffable contempt for my 
person and character, I compared the solicitude and tender- 
ness which your preceding letter had breathed, and was 
utterly lost in horror and doubt. But this is not the strain 
in which I ought to write to you. Reason should set my 
happiness beyond the love or enmity of another, not wiser 
or more discerning or benevolent than myself. If reason be 
inadequate to my deliverance, pride should hinder me from 
disclosing my humiliation — from confessing my voluntary 
servitude. 

After my discomposure was somewhat abated, I proceeded 
9 ^ 


CLARA HOWARD. 


to reflect on what was now to be done. Compliance with 
your dictates was obvious ; since I was no longer of import- 
ance to your happiness, it was time to remember what was 
due to that angelic sufferer. 

I have already told you that I sent your 1 etters, and pro- 
mised to see her in the evening. I went at the appointed hour. 
I entered her apartment with a throbbing heart, for she is 
my friend. Near a year had passed since I had last seen her ; 
this interval had been tormented with doubts of her safety, 
of her happiness, of her virtue, and even her existence. 
These doubts were removed, or about to be solved ; my own 
eyes were to bear testimony to the truth of her existence. 

I was admitted to her ; I hastened to communicate my 
wishes ; I enforced them by all the eloquence that I was 
master of, but my eloquence was powerless. She was too 
blind an admirer, and assiduous a follower of Clara Howard, 
to accept my proffers. I abruptly withdrew. 

Heaven protect thee and her ! I shall carry, I fear, the 
images of both of you along with me. Their company will 
not be friendly to courage or constancy. I shall shut them 
out as soon as I can. 

Philip Stanley. 


LETTER XXVII. 

To Miss Howard, 

Philadelphia, May 13, Nooir. 

I FEEL some reluctance and embarrassment in addressing 
you in this manner ; but am enabled, in some degree, to 
surmount them, by reflecting on the proofs which are now 
in my hands, of the interest which you take in my welfare, 
and of the inimitable generosity of your sentiments. 1 am 
likewise stimulated by the regard, which, in common with 
yourself, I feel for an excellent youth, to whose happiness 
tliis letter may essentially contribute. 

I have seen you but for a moment. I was prepared to 
And in you all tliat could inspire veneration and love. Tliat 
my prepossessions, were fuDy verified, will perhaps redound 


CLARA HOWARD. 


99 


little to the credit of my penetration or your beauty, since 
we seldom fail to discover in the features, tokens of all that 
we imagine to exist within. 

I know you by more copious and satisfactory means ; by 
several letters which Philip Stanley has put into my hands. 
By these it likewise appears that you have some acquaint- 
ance with me, collected from the same source, and from 
the representations of my friend. The character and situa- 
tion, the early history and unfortunate attachment of Mary, 
and that expedient which she adopted to free herself from 
useless importunities and repinings, are already known to you. 

This makes it needless for me to mention many partic- 
ulars of my early life ; they authorize the present letter, and 
allow me, or perhaps, to speak more truly, they enjoin me, to 
confide in you a relation of some incidents tfiat have lately 
occurred. Your sensibility would render them of some 
moment in your eyes, should they possess no relation but 
to a forlorn and unhappy girl ; but their importance will be 
greater, inasmuch as they are connected with your own 
destiny, and with that of one whom you justly hold dear. 
I shall claim your attention for as short a time as possible. 

A letter, written last autumn, to Philip Stanley, informing 
him of the motives that induced me to withdraw from his 
society, has been shewn to you ; it will therefore be needless 
to explain these motives anew. I console myself with 
believing, that they merited and obtained the approbation 
of so enlightened and delicate a judge as Clara Howard. 

The place of my retreat was determined by the kind 
offers and solicitations of a lady, by name Valentine. In 
other circumstances, similar solicitations from her had been 
refused ; but now I was anxious to retire to a great and 
unknown distance from my usual home — to retire without 
delay ; but my health was imperfect. I was a female, 
without knowledge of the world, without the means of 
subsistence, and the season was cold and boisterous. Mrs. 
Valentine was opulent ; her character entitled her to confi- 
dence and love ; her engagements required her immediate 
departure ; she would travel with all possible advantages ; 
her new abode was at a great distance from my own ; and 
she meant to continue absent during the ensuing year. 
There was but one consideration to make me hesitate. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


100 

Her brother had long offered me his affections. Mrs. 
Valentine had been his advocate, and endeavored to win my 
favor, or, at least, to facilitate his own exertions, by promot- 
ing our intercourse. 

I had been hitherto unjust to the merits of this man. His 
constancy, his generosity, his gifts of person, understanding, 
and fortune, might have won the heart of a woman less pre- 
possessed in favor of another. My indifference, my aver- 
sion, were proportioned to that fervent love with which my 
heart was inspired by another. I thought it my duty to 
avoid every means by which the impracticable wishes of 
Sedley might be fostered. For this end, I had hitherto de- 
clined most of those offers of friendship and intercourse 
with wliich I had been honored by his sister. 

My unhappy situation had now reduced me to the neces- 
sity of violating some of my maxims. I should never have 
accompanied Mrs. Valentine, however, had I not been previ- 
ously assured that her brother designed to live at a distance. 
It was impossible to object to his design of accompanying us 
to the end of our journey. 

That journey was accomplished. We anived at the eve 
of winter, in the neighborhood of Boston. The treatment 
I received from my friend was scrupulously delicate ; she 
acted with the frankness and affection of a sister ; but I 
think with shame on that absurd pride which hindered me 
from practising the same candor. I was born in an affluent 
condition ; but the misfortunes of my parents, while they 
trained me up in a thousand prejudices, left me at the age of 
eighteen totally destitute of property or friends. There was 
no human being on whom the customs of the world would 
allow me to depend. My only relation was a younger 
brother, who was still a boy, and who needed protection as 
much as myself. In this state, I had recourse for honest 
bread to my needle ; but the bread thus procured was min- 
gled with many bitter tears. I conceived myself degraded 
by my labor ; my penury was aggravated by remembrance 
of my former enjoyments. I shrunk from the salutation, or 
avoided the path of my early companions ; I imagined that 
tliey would regard my fallen state with cx)ntempt, or with 
pity, no less hard to be endured than scorn. I labored 
sometimes, by unjustibable and disingenuous artifices, to 


CLARA HOWARD. 101 

conceal my employments and my wants, and masked my 
cares as well as I was able, under cheerful looks. 

This spirit led me to conceal from Mrs. Valentine my for- 
lorn condition. I looked forward without hope, to the hour 
when new labor would be requisite to procure for me shelter 
and food. For these I was at present indebted to my friend ; 
but I loved to regard myself merely as a visitant, and anti- 
cipate the time when I should cease to lie under obligation. 
Meanwhile, there were many little and occasional sources 
of expense, to which my ill-supplied purse was unequal, 
while a thousand obstacles existed under this roof, to any 
profitable application of my time ; hence arose new cause of 
vexation, and new force to my melancholy. 

All my stratagems could not conceal from my friend my 
poverty. For a time she struggled to accommodate herself 
to my scruples, and to aid me, without seeming to know the 
extent of my necessities. These struggles were frustrated 
by my obstinate pride ; I steadily refiised either money or 
credit. 

At length she resolved to enter into full explanations with 
me on the subject. She laid before me, with simplicity and 
candor, all her suspicions and surmises, and finally extorted 
from me a confession that I was not mistress of a single dol- 
lar in the world ; that I had no kinsman to whom I could be- 
take myself for the supply of my wants ; no fund on which 
I was authorized to draw for a farthing. 

This declaration was heard with the strongest emotion. 
She betrayed surprise and disappointment. After a pause, 
she expressed her astonishment at this news. She remind- 
ed me how little it agreed with past appearances. She had 
known me during the latter part of my brother’s life, and 
since. My brother’s profession had apparently been useful 
to my subsistence, and since his death, though indeed the 
period had been short, I had lived in a neat seclusion, and at 
leisure. 

These hints induced me to be more frank in my disclo- 
sures. I related what is already known to you ; the fate of 
the money which I inherited from my brother, the doubtful 
circumstances that attended my brother’s possession, and 
tlie irresistible claims of Morton. 

Every word of my narrative added anew to my friend’s 


CLARA HOWARD. 


102 

surprise and disappointment. She continued for a long time 
silent; but much disquiet was betrayed by her looks. I 
mistook these for signs of disapprobation of my conduct, 
and began to justify myself. 

“ Dear Madam, would you not, in my place, have acted 
in this manner 9” 

“ Just so, Mary ; your conclusion was highly plausible.” 

“ I believe my conclusion,” replied I, “ to be certain. I 
did not require any stronger proof of Morton’s title.” 

“ And yet his claim was fallacious. This money was 
yours, and only yours.” 

This assertion was made with a confidence that convinced 
me of its truth, and caused my mind instantly to adopt a 
new method of accounting for the acquisition of this money. 
My eyes, fixed upon my companion, betrayed my suspicion 
that my benefactress was before me. Humiliation and grati- 
tude were mingled in my heart ; tears gushed from my eyes 
while I pressed her hand to my lips. 

“ Ah !” said I, “ if Morton were not the giver, who should 
know the defects of his title but the real giver 9” 

“ Your gratitude, Mary, is misplaced. You might easily 
imagine that my funds would never allow me to be liberi 
to that amount.” 

“ Is it not you 9 Whose then was the bounteous spirit 9 
You are at least acquainted with the real benefactor.” 

“ I confess that I am ; but may not be authorized to dis- 
close the name.” 

I besought her to disclose the name. 

“ The motive,” said my friend, “ is obvious. It could 
only be the dread that, knowing your scrupulousness on this 
head, you would refuse the boon, and thus frustrate a pur- 
pose truly benevolent. This apprehension being removed, 
there can certainly be no reason for concealment. I am en- 
tirely of your opinion, that the author of every good deed 
should be known not only to the subject of the benefit, but 
to all mankind.” 

After much solicitation, she at length confessed that this 
money was the gift of Mr. Sedley to my brother. She 
stated the motives of this uncommon liberality. Sedley had 
made his sister acquainted with his passion for me, and had 
engaged her counsel and aid. Her counsel had always 


CLARA HOWARD. 


103 

been, to abandon a pursuit where success was hopeless. — 
“ Perceiving your reluctance,” continued my friend, “ and 
finding it to arise from a passion for another, I earnestly dis- 
suaded him from persisting in claims, which were hurtful to 
you without profiting himself. His passion sometimes led 
him to accuse you of frowardness and obstinacy ; and, at 
those times, I had much ado to defend you, and to prove 
your right to consult your own happiness. 

‘‘ But these moments, I must say, in justice to my brother, 
were few. I could generally reason him into better temper. 
He could see, at least for a time, the propriety of ceasing to 
vex you with entreaties and arguments, and was generous 
enough to wish you happiness, even with another. Tliis spirit 
led him to inquire into the character and condition of your 
chosen friend. For this purpose he cultivated the acquaint- 
ance of your brother, and discovered that the only obstacle 
to your union with young Stanley, was your mutual poverty. 
After many struggles, many fits of jealousy and anger, and 
melancholy, he determined to lay aside eveiy selfish wish, 
and to remove this obstacle to your happiness, by giving you 
possession of sufficient property. 

“ This undertaking was in the highest degree arduous 
and delicate. To make the offer directly to you was chi- 
merical. No power on earth, he well knew, could per- 
suade you'to receive a free gift in money from one whose pre- 
tensions had been such as his. To bestow it upon Stanley 
would be exposing the success of his scheme to hazard ; his 
scruples would be likely to exclaim against such a gift, as 
loudly as yours, especially when attended with those condi- 
tions which it would be necessary to prescribe. There was 
likewise no certainty that his gift might not be diverted by 
Stanley to other purposes than those which he sought; 
neither did he wish to insure your marriage with another, 
upon terms which should appear to lay you under obligations 
to that other. Besides, your union with Stanley was, in 
some degree, uncertain ; a thousand untoward events might 
occur to protract or prevent it, whereas your poverty was a 
present and constant evil. 

“ After discussing a great number of expedients, he 
adopted one at length, wffiich perhaps, was as unskilful as 
any which he could have hghted on. By talking with your 


CLARA HOWARD. 


104 

brother, he found him possessed of a quick, indignant, and 
lofty spirit ; one that recoiled from pecuniary obligations ; 
that placed a kind of glory in being poor ; and in devoting 
his efforts to benevolent, rather than to lucrative purposes. 
He saw that direct offers of money, to any considerable 
amount, and accompanied with no conditions, or by condi- 
tions which respected his sister, would be disdainfully rejected, 
he determined, therefore, to leave him no option, and to put 
a certain sum in his possession, without it being possible for 
him to discover the donor, or to refuse the gift. This sum 
was therefore sent to him, under cover of a short billet, with- 
out signature, and in a disguised hand. 

‘‘ The scheme was not disclosed to me till after it was 
executed. I did not approve it ; lam no friend to indirect 
proceedings. I was aware of many accidents that might 
make this gift a hurtful one, or, at least, useless to the end 
Sedley proposed. Your brother’s scruples, which hindered 
him from openly accepting it, were likely to prevent him 
from applying so large a sum to his own, or to your benefit ; 
he would either let it lie idle in his coffers, under the belief 
that so ambiguous a transfer gave him no right to it, or he 
would more probably spend it on some charitable scheme. 
I was acquainted widi his enthusiasm, in the cause of what he 
called the good of mankind, and that his notions of tlie goods 
and evils of life differed much from those of his sister. 

“ This act, however, was not to be recalled, and it was 
useless to make my brother repent of his precipitation. I 
I hoped that his intention would not be defeated, and watched 
the conduct of your brother very carefully, to discover the 
effect of his new acquisition. The effect was such as I 
expected. Your brother’s mode of life underwent no 
change, and the money, as there w^ere easy means of dis- 
covering, lay in one of the banks untouched. 

“My curiosity was awakened anew at your brother’s death, 
and Sedley had the satisfaction of perceiving that yom* con- 
dition was visibly improved. You no longer hired out your 
labor ; you lived in retirement indeed, but with some degree 
of neatness ; and your time was spent in improving and 
adorning your mind, and in those offices of kindness and 
charity which, however arduous in themselves, are made 
light by the consciousness of dignity attending them. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


105 


“ I admire and l6ve you, and that day which would make 
you my sister, I should count the happiest of my life. You 
have treated me with much distance and reserve ; but I 
flattered myself that my overtures to intimacy had been 
rejected not on my own account, but on that of my brother. 
Since you have been my companion, I have noticed the 
proofs of your poverty with great uneasiness. I know that 
your money, all but a few hundred dollars, still lies in one of 
the banks. Will you pardon me for having been attentive 
to your conduct 9 For my brother’s sake, and for your own, 
I have watched all your movements, and could tell you the 
times and portions in which these hundreds have been drawn 
out j and have formed very plausible guesses as to the mode 
in which you have disposed of them. 

“ How to reconcile your seeming poverty with the posses- 
sion of some thousands ; how to account for your acquies- 
cence in my wishes to attend me hither, and for forbearing 
to use any more of this money for the supply of your own 
wants, has puzzled me a great deal. I perceive that you 
have dropped all intercourse with your former friend, and 
given up yourself a prey to melancholy. These things have 
excited, you will imagine, a great deal of reflection ; but I 
have patiently waited till you yourself have thought proper 
to put aside the curtain that is drawn between us. This you 
have at length done, and I, in my turn, have disclosed what 
I am afraid my brother will never forgive me for doing.” 

I could not but be deeply affected by this representation. 
The generosity of Sedley and his sister ; their perseverance 
in laboring for my good, when no personal advantage, not 
even the homage of a grateful spirit, could flow to themselves, 
made me feel the stings of somewhat like ingratitude. The 
merits and claims of Sedley came now to assume a new 
aspect. I had hitherto suffered different objects to engross 
my attention. I did not applaud or condemn myself for my 
conduct towards him, merely because I did not think of him. 
I was occupied by gloomy reveries, in which no images ap- 
peared but those of Stanley and my brother. 

Now the subjects of my thoughts were changed ; time had 
insensibly, and in some degree, worn out those deep traces 
which I brought away with me from Abingdon. Pity and 
10 


106 


CLARA HOWARD. 


complacency, and reverence for Sedley ; latitude to his 
sister, from whom 1 had received so many favors, and who 
would deem herself amply repaid by my consent to make 
her brother happy, hourly gained ground in my heart. 

These tendencies did not escape my friend, who endea- 
vored to strengthen and promote them. She insisted on the 
merits of her brother, arising from the integrity of his life, the 
elevation of his sentiments, and especially the constancy of 
his affection to me. She praised my self denial with regard 
to Stanley, and hinted that my duty to him was but half 
performed. It became me to shew that my happiness was 
consistent with self denial. 

“ Marriage with Miss Howard will give him but little plea- 
sure,” she said, “ while he is a stranger to your fate, or while 
he knows that you are unhappy. For his sake it becomes 
you to shake off aU useless repinings. To waste your days 
in this dejection, in longings alter what is unattainable, and 
what you have voluntarily given up, is contemptible, and, 
indeed, criminal. You have profited but little by the lessons 
of that religion you profess, if you see not the impiety of 
despair, and the necessity of changing your conduct. You 
have indeed fallen into a very gross error with regard to your 
friend. In some respects, you have treated him in an inhu- 
man manner.” 

“ Good Heaven, Mrs. Valentine, in what respect have I 
been inhuman.^” 

“ Have you not detailed to’ me the contents of the letter 
which you left behind you at Abingdon 9 In that letter have 
you not assured him that your heart was broken F that 
you expected and wished for death 9 — wishes that sprung 
from the necessity there was of renouncing his love. Have 
you not given him reason to suppose that you are enduring 
all the evils of penury and neglect 9 That you are languish- 
ing in some obscure corner, unknown, neglected, forgotten, 
and despised by all mankind 9 Have you not done this 

“ Alas ! it is too true.” 

“ Not to mention that this picture was by no means justi- 
fied by the circumstances in which you left Abingdon, and 
in which you could not but expect to pass the winter, amidst 
all the comforts which my character, my station in society, 
my friends, my fortune, and my friendship, must bestow ; not 


CLARA HOWARD. 


107 


to mention these things, which rendered your statement to 
him untrue, what must have been the influence of this picture 
upon the feelings of that generous youtli9 Can you not ima- 
gine his affliction 

“ O yes, indeed I can. I was wrong ; I now see my error. 
I believed that I should not have survived to this hour ; I 
wanted to cut off every hope, every possibility of his union 
with me.” 

And do you think that by tliat letter, this end was an- 
swered Do you not perceive that Stanley’s sympathy for 
you must have been infinitely increased by that distressful 
picture 1 that his resolution to find you out in your retreat, 
and compel you to be happy, would receive tenfold energy 9 
You imagine yourself to have resigned him to Miss Howard, 
but your letter and your flight could only bind him by 
stronger ties to yourself. Should this lady be inclined to 
favor Stanley, of what materials must her heart be com- 
posed, if she do not refuse, or at least, hesitate to interfere 
with your claims If she do not refuse, how must her 
happiness be embittered by reflections on your forlorn state 
for no doubt the young man’s sincerity will make her mis- 
tress of your story.” 

“ Do not dwell upon this theme,” said I, “ I am grieved for 
my folly. I have been very wrong; tell me rather, my beloved 
monitor, what I ought to have done — what I may still do.” 

“ It would be useless to dwell on what is past, and cannot 
be undone ; the future is fuUy in your power. Without doubt, 
you ought to hasten to repair the errors you have committed.” 

“ By what means 

“ They are obvious. You must dismiss these useless, 
these pernicious regrets, which, in every view, religious or 
moral, are criminal; you must give admission to cheerful 
thoughts, fix your attention on the objects of useful know- 
ledge, study the happiness of those around you, be affable 
and social, and entitle yourself to the friendship and respect 
of the many amiable persons who live near us ; above all, 
make haste to inform Stanley of your present condition, dis- 
close to him your new prospects of being useful and happy, 
and teach him to be wise by your example. But let your 
kindness be most shewn where your power is greatest, and 
where you are most strongly bound by the ties of gratitude. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


108 

Think of my brother as he merits to be thought of — chasten 
to toward him for those years of anguish wliich your per- 
verseness has given him, and which have consumed the best 
part of his life.” 

“ But how shall I gain an interview with Stanley I 
know not where he is. You say that my draft has never 
been presented ; it must be so, since the money is still there, 
in my own name. Some accident perhaps has befallen liim ; 
he may not be alive to receive the fruits of my repentance.” 

“ Set your heart at rest,” replied my friend, with a signi- 
ficant smile ; “ he is well.” 

“ Indeed ! You speak as if you had the means of know- 
ing. Surely, Madam, you know nothing of him.” 

“ I know enough of him. He is now in New York, in 
the same house with Miss Howard.” 

“ In the same house And — perhaps — married 

“ Fie upon you, Mary. Is this the courage you have just 
avowed, to turn pale, to falter at the mere possibility of 
what you have so earnestly endeavored to accomplish '?” 

“ Forgive me — it was a momentary folly. He is tlien — 
married 9” 

“ No. They live under the same roof; but it is nothing 
but a vague surmise tliat they will ever be married.” 

“ Dear lady, by what means — ” 

“ Through my brother’s letters, which, if you please to 
read them, will give you all the information that I possess. 
Why that sudden gravity They will not taint your fingers, 
or blast your sight ; they are worthy of my brother, and 
will depict truly that character which you could not fail to 
love, if you were but thoroughly acquainted with it.” 

This rebuke suppressed the objection which I was going 
to raise against perusing these letters. They were put into 
my hands ; they contained no information respecting Stan- 
ley, but that he resided at New York. 

They contained, chiefly, incidents and reflections relative 
to Sedley and to me ; in this respect they were copious. I 
read them often, and found myself daily confirmed in the 
resolutions which I began to form. I need not dwell upon 
the struggles which I occasionally experienced, and those 
fits of profound melancholy into which I was still sometimes 
plunged ; I shall only say, that listening only to the dictates 


CLARA HOWARD. 


109 


of justice and gratitude, and to the pathetic remonstrances 
of my friend, I finally prevailed upon myself to consent to 
her brother’s wishes. 

I should have written to Stanley, informing him of my 
destiny ; but I proposed to return to Philadelphia with Mrs. 
Valentine, and hoped to meet him there, or at New York. 

I was not unaware of the effects of an interview with 
him. My soul was tremulous with doubt, and torn by con- 
flicting emotions. I was ready, in dreary moments, to revoke 
my promise to Sedley, to trust once more to some kind 
chance that might make Stanley mine, or to consecrate my 
life to mournful recollections of my lost happiness. These 
were transient moments, and the bitter tears which attended 
them were soon dried up. I found complacency in the re- 
solution to devote my life to Sedley’s happiness, and to the 
society of his beloved sister. 

Having arrived at New York, I was told of Stanley’s 
absence, and learned that he was then somewhere south- 
ward. I was informed by Mrs.. Etheridge, with whom 
Sedley made me acquainted, of your general character. I 
wanted to see you ; to know you ; to repose my thoughts 
in your bosom ; to be Stanley’s advocate with you ; but I 
could not procure sufficient courage to request an introduc- 
tion to you. A thousand scruples deterred me. I thought 
that to justify confidence and candor on such delicate topics, 
much time and many interviews would be necessary ; but I 
could not remain in New York beyond a day. 

I went to Mrs. Etheridge strangely perplexed. Perhaps 
I should have ventured to beseech that lady’s company to 
your house ; but the meeting that took place on that occa- 
sion, confused me beyond the possibility of regaining com- 
posure. The superscription of your letter added to my 
surprise, and made me more willing to decline a meeting, 
since this letter would guide me to the very spot where 
Stanley was to be found. 

I once more entered my native city. Sedley was pre- 
pared to meet and welcome me. He was apprised of my 
intention as to Stanley, and did not disapprove — he even 
wrote the billet by which I invited your friend to come to 
my lodgings. 


10 * 


110 


CLARA HOWARD. 


My purpose was to unfold the particulars contained in this 
letter to Stanley, and to introduce my two friends to each 
other. In answer to my billet I received a voluminous 
packet, containing certain letters and narratives relative to 
him and to you. 

How shall I describe my feelings on perusing them ! 
They supply the place of a thousand conversations ; they 
leave nothing to be said ; they take away every remnant of 
hesitation ; they inspire me with new virtue and new joy. 
I am not grieved that Stanley and his Clara are subjected 
to trials of their magnanimity, since I foresee the propitious 
issue of the trial. I am not grieved that the happiness of 
Mary has been an object of such value in your eyes, as to 
merit the sacrifice of your own. 1 exult that my feelings 
are akin to your’s, and that it is in my power to vie with you 
in generosity. 

But Stanley’s last letter gives me pain ; the more, because 
in the tenor of your’s which preceded it, there is an apparent 
harshness, not, perhaps, to be mistaken by an unimpassioned 
reader, but liable to produce fallacious terrors in a heart 
deeply enamoured. I see the extent of this error in him ; 
but am consoled by hoping that my reasoning, when we 
meet) or at least, that time will dispel this unfriendly cloud. 
I am impatient for his coming. Mahy Wilmot. 


LETTER XXVIII. 

To Miss Howard. 

Philadelphia, May 13 . 

My friend, we have met, but such a meeting ! 

The letters had told me of his sickness, but I expected 
not to behold a figure so wan, so feeble, so decayed. I ex- 
pected much anxiety — much conflict in his features, be- 
tween apprehension and hope ; but not an aspect so wild, so 
rueful, so melancholy. His deportment and his words were 
equally adverse to my expectations. 

After our first tears of congratulation were exhausted, he 
exclaimed, in a tone of unusual vehemence — “ Why, my 


CLARA HOWARD. 


Ill 

friend, have you dius long abandoned me You have been 
unjust to yourself and to me ; and I know not how to par- 
don you, except on one condition.” 

“ What is thatr’ 

“ That we now meet to be united by the strongest ties, 
and never to part more. On that condition I forgive you.” 

I was prepared for this question ; but the tones and looks 
with which it was accompanied, and especially its abrupt- 
ness, disconcerted me — I was silent. 

“ I came to this interview,” resumed he, “ with one de- 
termination. I will not tremble, or repine, or upbraid, be- 
cause my confidence in the success of my efforts is perfect, 
and not to be shaken. I came to offer you the vows of a 
husband. They are now offered, and received. You have 
no power to decline them. Let me then salute you as — my 
wife.” 

I shrunk back, and spread out my hand to repulse him. 
I was still unable to spe ak. 

“ I told you the purpose of my coming,” said he, in a 
solemn tone ; “ this purpose is the dearest to my heart. 
Of every other good I am bereaved ; but to the attainment 
of this diere can be no obstacle but caprice, or inhumanity, 
or folly ; such as I never can impute to you. If you love 
me, if you have regard to my welfare, if you wish me to 
love, grant me that good which is all that remains to endear 
existence. If you refuse tliis gift, I shall instantly vanish 
from society. I shall undertake a journey, in which my 
life will be exposed to numberless perils. If I pass them 
in safety, I shall be dead to all the offices and pleasures of 
civilized existence. I shall hasten to embrute dl my facul- 
ties. I shall make myself aldn to savages and tygers, and 
forget that I once was a man. This is no incoherent inti- 
mation ; it is the fixed purpose of my soul, to be changed 
only by your consenting to be mine. Ponder well on the 
consequences of a refusal — it decides my everlasting des- 
tiny.” 

“ Have you not read my letter 9 Have I not read your’s 
and Clara’s 9 How then can you expect my concurrence ? 
Have you not anticipated my refusal 

“ I anticipated misery. Having found injustice and a 
callous heart in another, where I least expected to find them, 


CLARA HOWARD. 


112 

I was prone, in the bitterness of disappointment, to ascribe 
them to every human creature ; but that was rash and absurd 
— Mary cannot be unjust.” 

“ To whom do you impute a hard heart T’ 

“ Not to you. You merit not the imputation ; you will 
prove yourself compassionate and good ; you will not scorn 
me, cast me off, drive me into hopeless exile, and inextri- 
cable perils. You are too good, and have been too long 
my friend ; the partaker of my cares ; the solace of my 
being ; the rewarder of my tenderness. You will not reject 
me — banish me — kill me.” 

“You know not what you say ; your thoughts are con- 
fused. You love, and are beloved by another — by one who 
merits your eternal devotion and gratitude. They are due 
to her, and never will I rob her of them.” 

“ What mean you 9 Did not you say you had read the 
packets 9 and do not these inform you that I have no place 
in the affections of any human being but yourself 9 Con- 
vince me that I have, indeed, a place in yours — that I am 
not utterly deserted. Consent to be mine own — my belov- 
ed wife, and thus make me as happy as my fate will permit.” 

“ Alas, my friend ! you are not in your right mind. Dis- 
appointment has injured your reason, or you could never 
solicit me thus — ^you could never charge Clai’a Howard witli 
a hard heart.” 

“ Talk not of Clara Howard — ^talk only of yourself and 
of me. Rid me of suspense and anxiety, by consenting 
to my wishes — make me happy. Take away, at least, tlie 
largest portion of my misery, by your consent. Will you 
not be mine 

“ Never. Former objections time has rendered more 
strong 5 but your letters would have fixed my resolutions, 
had they wavered. These shew how far the happiness of 
of Miss Howard and your own depend upon my persever- 
ance ; and persevere I must.” 

“ What mean you 9 Miss Howard’s happiness, say you, 
depends upon your noncompliance with her wishes ; on your 
rejecting the prayers she has made with the utmost degree 
of earnestness 9” 

“ They are generous prayers, which suppose me weaker, 
and more infatuated than I am. They are prayers wliich 


CLARA HOWARD. 


113 

counteract their own purpose, since they exhibit an example 
of disinterestedness and self-oblivion, which I cannot fail to 
admire and to imitate. Our cases are indeed not parallel. 
Her love for you is answered and returned by equal love. 
To me your heart is indifferent, and I have resolved to con- 
quer my perverse affections, or perish.” 

“ You have read her letters — her last letter, and you talk 
of her love ! Once, I grant, it might have been — it was so ; 
but that time of affability, of softness, of yielding, is gone ; 
she is now rugged, austere, unfeeling. Her preposterous 
abstractions and refinements have gained force tlirough the 
coldness of her heart. There is no self-sacrifice, for she 
loves me not ; there is no regard for my welfare or felicity, 
for she loves me not.” 

“ O, Philip, can you be so perverse, so unjust 9 You 
merit not the love of so pure a spirit ; you merit not the 
happiness which such a one is qualified to give you. But 
your disappointment has disturbed your reason. I can pity 
and forgive you, and will intercede with her for your forgive- 
ness. I see her merits and her superior claims too clearly, 
ever to consent to your separation. You are discomposed,” 
I continued, “ surely you have been very sick. You seem 
to have just risen from the grave, you are so pale, so wan, 
so feeble. Your state of health has made you unfit to judge 
truly of the motives of your friend, and to adopt her mag- 
nanimity. If you will have patience, I can convince you 
that it is my duty to reject your offers, and that Clara How- 
ard may still, if you please, be yours.” 

“ Then,” replied he, “you do reject them 

“ Do not look so wildly. I am sure you are not well. 
You seem ready to sink upon the floor 5 you are cold — 
very cold. Let us defer this conversation a little while. I 
have much to say on the subject of my history, since we 
parted. That being known to you, you will see reason to 
judge differently of my motives for rejecting your offers ; 
instead of making that rejection more difficult by impor- 
tunity and vehemence, you will see the justice of concurring 
with me, and of strengthening my resolution.” 

“ Impossible,” said he, “ that any thing has happened to 
change my views. Are not your affections, merits, and in- 
tegrity, the same as formerly 9 Answer me sincerely.” 


CLARA HOWARD. 


114 

“ I will — I have no reason for concealment. Time has 
not lessened my merits, it is true ; but — ” 

“ That assurance is enough for me. I will eagerly listen 
to your story, but not until my fate is decided. Have pity 
on that sinking frame, and that wounded heart which you 
behold ; there is but one cure, and that is deposited in your 
hands. To every other my joy or sorrow, my life or death 
is indifferent. Will you take me to your bosom 9 Shall 
my image be fostered, and my soul find peace there 9 or 
shall I cast myself upon a sea of storms and perils, and van- 
ish from this scene for ever 9” 

“ How you grieve me ! I beseech you be not so impetu- 
ous. Listen to my story first, and then say in what man- 
ner 1 ought to act.” 

‘‘ There is no room for delay. Say you will be mine, 
and then I shall enjoy repose ; I shall be able to listen. Till 
then 1 am stretched upon the rack. Answer me ; will you 
be mine 

“ O, no !” I replied ; “ while I have a heart not wholly 
sordid and selfish, 1 cannot consent ; my conscience will not 
let me.” 

“ Find consolation,” he answered, “ in the approbations 
of that conscience, for a sentence that has ratified the doom 
of one who deserved differently from you. I perceive you 
are inflexible, and will therefore leave you.” 

“ But whither are you going 9 Will you not return to 
Clara 9 

‘‘ To Clara ! No. Far different is the path that I am 
to tread. 1 shall never see her more.” 

He now moved towards the door, as if going. 

“ Philip, what can you mean 9 Stay ; do not go till you 
have heard me further. I entreat you, as you value my 
peace, and my life, hear me further.” 

“ Will you then consent 9” said he, returning with a more 
cheerful brow. “ How good you are ! The same dear 
girl ; the same angelic benignity as formerly. Confirm my 
happiness by new assurances ; confirm it by permitting this 
embrace.” 

I was compelled to avert my face ; to repulse him from 
my arms. 

“ To what unlooked-for trials have you subjected me ! but 


CLARA HOWARD. 


115 

I must not retract my resolutions. No, Philip, the bar be- 
tween us is insuperable. I must never be yours.” 

“ Never ! — -never ! — be mine ! — Well — May the arms of 
a protecting Providence encircle thee ! may some other rise 
to claim and possess thy love ! may ye never, neither thou 
nor Clara, know remorse for your treatment of me !” 

Saying this, he snatched his hat from the table, and ran 
out of the house. I called, but he was gone beyond my 
hearing. 

I was jusdy alarmed by this frantic demeanor. I knew 
not how to account for it, but by imagining that some re- 
mains of delirium still afflicted his understanding. 1 related 
tills conversation to Sedley. I entreated him to pursue 
Philip to his lodgings, to prevail upon him to return hither ; 
or to calm his mind, by relating what his abrupt departure 
had prevented me from saying. 

Sedley cheerfully complied with my request ; but Stanley 
was not to be found at his lodging. He waited his return 
till ten, eleven, and twelve o’clock, but in vain. 

Meanwhile, I found some relief in imagining they had 
met ; that Sedley’s address and benevolence had succeeded 
in restoring our friend to better thoughts. My disappoint- 
ment and alarm at his return, on hearing that Stanley had 
not been met with, were inexpressible. That night passed 
away without repose. Early the next morning, 1 again 
entreated Sedley to go in search of the fugitive. He went, 
but presendy returned to inform me that Stanley had set out 
in the stage for Baltimore, at day-dawn. 

I cannot comprehend his intimations of a journey to the 
wilderness ; of embruting his faculties ; of exposing his hu- 
manity, his life, to hazard. Could he have interpreted your 
letters into avowals of hatred or scorn, or even of indiffer- 
ence One, indeed, who knew you less perfectly, might 
impute to you a rigor in judging ; a sternness not suitable to 
the merits of this youth. Your letters are void of that ex- 
tenuating spirit, that reluctance to inflict sufferings, wfflich, 
perhaps, the wisest inflexibility wiU not be slow' to feel, or 
unwilling to express. But Philip had sufficient knowledge 
to save him from a wrong construction. 

Yet that, alas ! is not true. He ought to have had diat 
knowledge ; but it was w'anting. 


116 


CLARA HOWARD. 


Possibly he has not told you his designs. He cannot 
inform you of the truth with respect to me. My present 
situation should be known to you, to enable you to act with 
propriety. I shall not prescribe to you ; lam not mistress 
of your thoughts and motives; may Heaven direct you 
right. 

A friend will go to Baltimore on Tuesday, time enough 
for you to receive this, and to write to Philip. If sent to me, 
I will entrust it to my friend. J have not time to add a 
word more. 

Accept the reverence and love of Mary Wilmot. 


LETTER XXIX. 

To Philip Stanley. 

New York, May 16 . 

Stanley, how shall I address you In terms of indigna- 
tion or of kindness ^ Shall I entreat you to return, or ex- 
hort you to obey the wild dictates of caprice Shall I 
leave you to your froward destiny, and seek, in the prospect 
of a better world, a relief from the keen distress, the humi- 
liating sorrows of this scene of weakness and error 

Shall I link my fate with one who is deaf to the most pa- 
thetic calls of his duty ^ who forgets or spurns the most 
urgent obligations of gratitude whom the charms of na- 
ture, the attractions of science, the claims of helpless and 
fond sisters, who trust for shelter, for bread, for safety from 
contempt, and servitude, and vice, to his protection, liis 
counsel, his presence, cannot detain from forests and wilds, 
where inevitable death awaits him 

Shall I bestow one drop of tender remembrance on him 
who upbraids and contemns me for sacrificing every selfish 
regard to his dignity ; for stifling in my bosom that ignoble 
passion which makes us trample on the claims of others, 
which seeks its own gratification at tlie price of humanity 
and justice, which can smile in the midst of repinings and 
despair, of creatures no less worthy, no less susceptible of 
good 


CLARA HOWARD. 


117 


You say that I love you not. Till this moment your as- 
sertion was untrue. My heart was not free, till tliese proofs 
of your infatuation and your folly were set before me. Till 
now, I was willing to account you not unworthy. 1 hoped 
that time and my efforts would reclaim you to some sense of 
equity and reason. 

But now — must I then deem you utterly lost 9 Have you 
committed this last and irretrievable act 9 O, no ! it was 
surely but a momentary madness ; the fit will be past before 
this letter reaches you ; you will have opened your eyes to 
the cowardice, the ignominy, the guilt of this flight ; you 
will hasten to close those wounds which have rent my heart ; 
you will return to me with the speed of the wind, and make 
me, by the rectitude of your future conduct, forget tliat you 
have ever erred. 

Has it come to this ! now, that the impediment has van- 
ished, that my feelings may be indulged at the cost of no 
one’s peace ; now that the duty which once so sternly for- 
bade me to be yours, not only permits, but enjoins me to 
link together our fates ; that the sweet voice of an approving 
conscience is ready to sanction and applaud every impulse 
of my heart, and make the offices of tenderness not only free 
from guilt, but coincident with every duty ; that now 

Philip, let me hope that thou hast hesitated, doubted, 
lingered in thy fatal career — let me foster this hope that 
I may retain life. My fortitude, alas ! is unequal to this 
test. No disaster should bereave me of serenity and courage ; 
but to this, while 1 despise myself for yielding, I must yield. 

If this letter do not reach thee — if it fill not thy heart 
\vith remorse, thy eyes with tenderness — if it cure thee 
not of thy phrenzy, and bring thee not back 

It must — it will. 

Clara Howard. 


a 


118 


CLARA HOWARD. 


LETTER XXX. 

To Philip Stanley, 

Philadelphia, May 15. 

What has become of that fortitude, my friend, which I 
was once accustomed to admire in you 9 You used to be 
circumspect, sedate, cautious ; not precipitate in judging or 
resolving. What has become of all these virtues 

Why would you not give your poor friend a patient hear- 
ing 9 Why not hesitate a moment, before you plunged all 
whom you love into sorrow and distress 9 Was it impossible 
for six months of reflection to restore the strength of my 
mind, to introduce A\iser resolutions and more cheerful 
thoughts, than those with which I parted from you 9 

I was then sick. My lonely situation, tlie racking fears 
your long silence had produced, a dreary and lowering sky, 
and the tidings your letter conveyed of my return again to 
that indigence so much detested by my pride, were surely 
enough to sink me deeply in despondency ; to make me, at 
the same time, desire and expect my death. 

I saw the bright destiny that was reserved for you. My 
life, I thought, stood in the way of your felicity. I knew your 
impetuous generosity, your bewitcliing eloquence. I knew the 
frailty of my own heart. Hence my firm resolve to shun an 
intemew with you, to see you no more, at least till your 
destiny had been accomplished. 

Happy was tlie hour in which I formed this resolution. 
By it I have not only secured that indirect happiness, arising 
from the contemplation of yours, but the ineffable bliss of 
requiting that love, of which my heart was so long insensible. 

Yes, my friend, the place that you once possessed in my 
affections, is now occupied by another — by him of whose 
claims I know you have always been the secret advocate — 
by that good, wise, and generous man, whom I always 
admitted to be second to yourself ; but for whom my heart 
now acknowledges a preference. 

Had you waited for an explanation of my sentiments, you 
would have saved me, your beloved Clara, yourself, and all 
your fiiends, the anxieties your present absence has pro- 


CLARA HOWARD. 


119 


duced. That rashness may excite remorse, hut it cannot he 
recalled ; let it then be speedily forgotten, and let this letter 
put a stop to your flight. 

Dear Philip! come back. All the addition of which 
my present happiness is capable, must come from you. 
The heart-felt approbation, the sweet ineffable complacency 
with which my present feelings are attended, want nothing 
to merit the name of perfect happiness, but to be witnessed 
and applauded by you. 

Your Clara — that noblest of women, joins me in recal- 
ling you, and is as eager to do justice to your passion, as I 
am to recompense the merits of Sedley ; therefore, my 
friend, if you value my happiness or Clara’s, come back. 
Will you not obey tlie well known voice, calling you to 
virtue and felicity, of 

Your sister, 

Mary Wilmot. 


LETTER XXXI. 

To Clara Howard. 

WiLMiNGTOJf, May 17 . 

I HAVE received and have read your letter. To say 
thus much is enough. From what a depth of humiliation 
and horror have I emerged ! How quickly was I posting to 
my ignominy and my ruin ! Your letter overtook me at this 
place, where a benignant fate decreed that 1 should be 
detained by sickness. — Clara, thou hast judged truly. My 
eyes are open to my folly, and my infatuation. The mists 
that obscured my sight are gone ; I am once more a reason- 
able creature. 

How shall I atone for my past misconduct, or compensate 
thee, my heavenly monitor, for the disquiet which thou hast 
endured for my sake 9 By hasting to thy feet, and pouring 
out before thee the tears of my repentance. Thy forgive- 
ness is all that [ dare claim — thy tenderness I do not merit. 
Years of service and self-denial, are requisite to qualify me 
for receiving that best gift. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


120 

Your letter, with one from Mary, were left upon my pil- 
low by a traveller passing through this town to Baltimore. I 
had swallowed laudanum, to secure me some sleep, on the 
night of my arrival hither. I was unable to proceed further, 
my mind and body being equally distempered. After a 
perturbed sleep, I awoke before the light, and lifting my head 
from the pillow, to acquaint myself with my situation, 1 per- 
ceived, by the light of a candle on the hearth, a packet lying 
beside me. I snatched it with eagerness, and found enclos- 
ed, thy letter, and one from Mary. 

For a time, I imagined myself still dreaihing. The con- 
tents of each letter so far surpassed and deceived every 
expectation — every wish that 1 had formed 5 such pure and 
unmerited felicity was offered me, and by means so abrupt 
and inexplicable, that I might well hesitate to believe it real. 

Next morning, on inquiry, I discovered that a midnight 
coach had arrived, in which a traveller, chancing to hear of 
my condition, and my name, entered my apartment, while I 
slept, and left this packet, which, as 1 saw, was intended to 
have been conveyed to Baltimore. 

My fever, though violent, proved to be merely an inter- 
mittent. By noon this day, though feeble and languid, I 
■was freed from disease ; I am also free from anxiety. The 
purest delight thrills in my bosom, mixed now and then, and 
giving place to compunction, for the folly of my late 
schemes. In truth, I have been sick 5 since the perusal of 
thy letter by Mary, 1 have been half crazy, shivering and 
glowing by turns ; bereft of appetite and restless — every 
object was tinged with melancholy hues. 

But I shall not try to extenuate my fault. May tliy smiles, 
my beloved Clara, and thy voice, musical and thrilling as it 
used to be, disperse every disquiet. No time shall be lost 
in returning to thee. My utmost haste will not enable me 
to offer tliee, before Tuesday morning, the hand and heait 
of Philip Stanley. 


CLARA HOWARD. 


121 


LETTER XXXII. 

To Philip Stanley, 

New York, May 19. 

You are coming, my friend. I shall chide you and thank 
you in the same breath, for your haste. I hope you will 
incur no injury by a journey at night. Knowing that you 
mean not to lay by, 1 am unable to go to bed. The air 
was blustering in the evening, and now, at midnight, it blows 
a storm. It is not very cold, but a heavy rain is falling. 
I sit by my chamber fire, occupied in little else than listening 
to it ; and my heart droops, or gains courage, according to 
the pauses or increases of the wind and rain. 

W ould to Heaven tliou hadst not this boisterous river to 
cross. It is said to be somewhat dangerous in a high wind. 
This is a land of evils ; the transitions of the seasons are so 
quick, and into such extremes. How different from tlie 
pictures which our fancy drew in our native land ! 

This wind and rain ! how will you endure them in your 
' crazy vehicle, thumping over rocks, and sinking into hol- 
lows 9 — I wish you had not been in such haste ; twenty 
hours sooner or later would be of no moment ; and this 
river — to cross it at any time, is full of danger — ^what must 
it be at night, and in a storm 9 Your adventurous spirit 
will never linger on the opposite shore till day dawns, and 
the wind has died away. 

But well know I the dangers and toils of a midnight 
journey, in a stage-coach, in America. The roads are knee 
deep in mire, winding tlirough crags and pits, while the 
wheels groan and totter, and the curtains and roof admit the 
wet at a thousand seams. 

It is three, and the day will soon come. How I long to 
see thee, my poor friend ! Having once met, never, I 
promise thee, will we part more. This heart, witli whose 
treasures thou art imperfectly acquainted, will pour all its 
sorrows and joys into thy honest bosom. My maturer age, 
and more cautious judgment, shall be counsellors and guides 
to thy inexperienced youth. While 1 love thee and cherish 
thee as a wife, I shall assume some of tlte prerogatives of 


CLARA HOWARD. 


122 

an elder sister, and put my circumspection and forethought 
in the balance against thy headlong confidence. 

I revere thy genius and thy knowledge. With the im- 
provements of time, very far wilt thou surpass the humble 
Clara ; but in moral discernment, much art tliou ^11 defi- 
cient ; here I claim to be more than equal ; but the difference 
shall not subsist long. Our modes of judging and our 
maxims shall be the same ; and this resemblance shall be 
purchased at the cost of all my patience, my skill, and my 
love. 

Alas ! this rain is heavy. The gale whistles more loudly 
than ever. Would to Heaven thou wast safely seated near 
me, at this quiet fireside ! Clara Howard. 


LETTER XXXIII. 


To Mary Wilmot, 


Rejoice with me, my firiend 


New York, May 21. 
Stanley is arrived ; and 


has been little incommoded by his journey. He has brought 
with him your letter. Will you pardon me for omitting to 
answer it immediately, and as fully as it deserves 9 As soon 
as the tumults of my joy settle down into calm, unruffled 
felicity, I will comment upon every sentence ; at present, I 
must devote myself to console this good lad for his suffer- 
ings, incurred, as he presumes to say, entirely on my 
account. 

And so you have deferred the happiness of your Sedley 
for a whole month. I wonder he has any patience with 
you ; but he that has endured, without much discontent, the 
delay of six or eight years (is it not so long 9) ought to be 
ashamed of his impatience at a new delay of a few weeks. 

Dear Mary, shall I tell you a secret 9 If you add one 
week of probation to the four already decreed, it is by no 
means impossible, that the same day may witness the happi- 
ness of both of us. May that day, whenever it shall come, 
prove the beginning of joy to Mary, and to her, who, in 
every state, will be your affectionate 


Clara Howard. 











